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LISTERINE-Qf/ici^'

It may nip the trouble in the bud

AT tlie first sign of cliill, »ir sneeze,
start gargling wiili this woiulerhil
antiseptit.

Excitement, tatigiic, raw temperatures,
cold feet, may lower body resistance so
tliat thrc-ateiiing germs can invade die
tissue and set up or aggravate an infection.

Nature Needs Help

Then, if ever, Nature needs a lielping
hand to keep such germs under control
... to help prevent a "mass invasion"
when defenses are down.

That's why it is wise to gargle with
full strength Listerine Antiseptic at tiie

(irst hint of trouble.

Listerine readies way back on throat
surfaces to kill millions of germs . . . in-
cluding hosts of the very ".secondary
invaders" iliat many .specialists believe
to be responsible for so many of a cold's
troublesome aspects. Actual tests
showed reductionsofbacteriaonmourh
and tliroar .surfaces ranging to y6.7 per
cenr 1 5 minutes after the Listerine Anti-
septic gargle and up CO 80Vi one liour after.

At the First Sigti of Trouble
If you feel chilly, under par, have the
sniffles and your throat feels irritated.

The

SAFE ANTISEPTIC

gargle at once with Listerine Antiseptic
and repeat every 3 hours. You may spare
yourself a nasry siege of cold and a pain-
ful sore throat.

... AND INDUSTRIAL WARFARE HAS ITS

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BUSINESS COURSES

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Q Cartooning G Civil Service

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...AddreM...

, ..Present Position....

AST— IP

SCIENCE-FICTION

TITLE REGISTERED tl. $. PATENT OFFICE

Contents for January, 1943, Vol. XXX, No. 5

John W. Campbell, Jr., Editor, Catherine Tarrant, Asst. Editor

Serial

OPPOSITES— REACT! Will Stewort .... 9

First of Two Parts. Whether human or atomic, opposites react.

And when all the Powers of High Space sought the secret of
handling and controlling the mighty reaction of seetee and ter-
rene matter— there was bound to be plenty of both reactions 1

Novelettes

THE SEARCH A. E. van Vogt 44

Somewhere, somehow, he’d lost two weeks — just dropped from
his memory. And it was those two weeks he was seeking. In
the end — he found they had never been lived!

BARRIUS. IMP . . . . Malcolm Jameson . . 69

Barry was out to straighten up the business of Anachron, Inc. in
ancient Rome, to oust a chiseling branch manager in Time. And,
of course, to keep out of Roman politics —

ELSEWHEN Anthony Boucher ... 112

An alibi is a claim to be elsewhere when the crime was com-
mitted. Given a time machine, there's another possibility—

Short Stories

BACKFIRE Ross Rocklynne ... 34

The man from the Twentieth Century didn’t fit in their time —
didn’t merit, with his demagogic traits, the immortality they could
confer. But— be won it. A queer sort, though, that backfired.

NOTHING BUT GINGERBREAD LEFT . . Henry Kuifner .... 60

Nonsense can stop a perfect military machine, break down com-
plete organization — if it’s perfect and rhythmic nonsense.

THE CAVE P. Schuyler Miller. . . 83

The mores of a race is determined ultimately by the environment.

And the Earthman sheltering in a cave on Mars didn’t properly
understand that basic fact— and the basic need of all life.

TIME LOCKER Lewis Padgett .... 100

Galloway, the scientist who played by ear, invented the gadget.

But it was the crooked lawyer who saw a use for it. And who
used it most unintentionally to commit a peculiar and unpleasant
sort of crime —

A rticle

GET OUT AND GET UNDER (Part II) . . L. Sprague de Comp . . 92

Concluding the discussion of the evolution of the armored divi-
sion from Babylonian war-chariot to “Big Willie,” the first of the
modern tanks.

Readers’ Departments

THE EDITOR’S PAGE . 6

THE AHALYTICAL LABORATORY . 33

An Analysis of Reeders’ Opinions.

BOOK REVIEW 127

BRASS TACKS 128

Concerning Purely Personal Preferences.

OUT SECOND
FRIDAT
BACH MONTH
NEXT ISSUE ON
SALE JAN. 8.
1943

12.60 per TEAR
25c per COPT

prlBtBd iB III* U.8.A.

Cover by William Timmins

Illustrations by Fax, M. Isip, Kolliker, Kramer and Orban

M«n1li1y publlcitlon Usued by SUbiI A Smilh PublicRtlon), IncrporMBd. 7S Stvinlh t

N*« York City. AlUn L. e»mnar, ProoldonI; Henry W. Rt

Btrald H. Smith. Sierotsry tnd Truiuror. Cobyrioht, ie42. In U. 8. >..

Stro4t A Smith Publlcatleno, Inc. Reentered *e Secohd-eliu Matter, February 7, I
Pelt Oflci at New York, under Act ef Cenireii »l M«reh 3, IE79. SubterlptlMi t« Ceantrlei In
Pm American Unlen, 12.73 Mr ycir; elsewhere, 13. 2S per year. Wo cannot aecapt mMailblllly
for ufliollcitid manuoerlpti or artwork. Any matorlol lubmltlod rauti Inoludo return postopo.
The editorial eontonts ol nils mopazlno haw net been published before, are pretected n len.

rliht and lanaet be reprinted without the publisher's — -'••i— »>• ■- —

are fiction. Ni letMl perieni are deilpneted either
lelneldenltl.

STREET & SMITH PUBLICATIONS. INC. • 79 SEVENTH AVE., NEW YORK

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H. C. LEWIS, President

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OCCUPATION ,

RE RAYS

When a military man talks of firepower he's
talking of a form of power that isn’t normally
considered as something to be measured in terms
of watts, horsepower, or ergs per second. It’s
usually measured in terms of weight of destruc-
tive metal and explosive shot out per minute.
But firepower can be measured in terms of horse-
power, too. There’s the question of recoil, a
not very important matter when you’ve got your
gun anchored in the pragmatically infinite mass
of the Earth, but a major item for an airplane.
When a modern fighter cuts loose with all its
machine guns and cannon firing straight ahead,
there’s a rearward recoil equal to the thrust of a
five-thousand-horsepower engine, about twice as
much engine as any fighter now made can carry
into the air. A machine gun is, after all, an
interrupted rocket.

It is also an internal combustion engine, of one
cylinder, two-cycle design that throws away its
piston on every cycle. As such, its power comes
out to an astonishingly large number of hundreds
of horsepower. Modern propellent powders pack
a tremendous punch in that little brass cartridge
tube, a very compact, convenient and manipulatable
sort of concentrated and packaged energy. The
mechanism for releasing and utilizing that energy
in a destructive, directed way is simple and
rugged.

Which may be part of the answer to the lack
of a death ray, heat ray, or disintegration ray.
A death ray might ^ conceivably be a sort of
catalyst — a peculiar form of energy, very little of
which could upset the delicate chemistry of life.
But a heat ray, if it’s to be dangerous because
of its heating effect, means energy, and more par-
ticularly power — rate of energy release — in large
gobs. A disintegration ray supposedly implies a
ray capable of making solid, strong metal fall to
dust, or, going further, making the atoms of the
metal collapse. If it makes metal fall to dust,
it is supplying energy sufficient to break the
powerful intermolecular bonds that lock the crys-
tals of the metal together — it’s not merely break-
ing the tough steel cable in one place, but in a
near-infinity of places. If you think that doesn’t
require a stupendous amount of hard work, try it
on your own piano wire; that type of disintegra-
tion ray would use up an appalling amount of
power in an appallingly inefficient way.

The atom-disintegrator ray we can’t make yet,
certainly, or even closely approach. If we could,
it might not work the way you would like it
to. Smashing atoms yields enormous amounts
of energy, so such a ray might seem to be possible
on a basis that gave off energy rather than absorb-

ing it in quantity. It might be — on certain se-
lected types of atoms, U-235 atoms, for instance.
But remember the old and well-known — to science-
fiction — fact that four atoms of hydrogen combine
to make one atom of helium with a release of tre-
mendous energy. What sort of essence of energy
are you going to have to pour into the ray that
will smash helium atoms back to hydrogen? And
helium atoms can, apparently, combine to form
more complex atoms still, with a further release
of energy!

Rays would have difficulties on the basis of
sheer power-supply. Except — how about that
catalytic death ray?

We know of one such radiation now — and use it.
The Sterilamp is a special mercury vapor arc in
a special tube that emits radiation of about twenty-
five hundred angstroms which have the property
of killing bacteria exposed to it almost instan-
taneously. A lamp of only three-watts power is
instantly deadly to even very tough bacterial
forms.

But it won’t give a man a sunburn, or cause
detectable tanning of the skin. And our atmos-
phere happens to consist of gases that, in the
presence of any real concentration of such radia-
tion, is converted to ozone, which is as transparent
to that radiation as so much cast iron. Air is
remarkably opaque stuff — except to a very narrow
band of the total spectrum which naturally in-
cludes the visible region. Life evolved under
those conditions: obviously it had to pick the
available wave lengths. Air is heavily opaque to
ultraviolet, X ray, gamma and cosmic radiation.
The latter leaks through by sheer blazing force,
just as you can get light through a man’s opaque
flesh if you start with enough light.

The air kills any radiation shorter than the
visible; metal walls, even thin metal walls, will
ground out and kill any radiations much longer
than the visible — until the metal walls are smashed
by the sheer power of the attacking energy. The
answer would seem to be unadulterated, unspe-
cialized force. You can’t sneak in by any scheme
based on knowledge as of today, you must blast in.

Which a powder-impelled metal slug does with
admirable neatness and dispatch. No tricky
gadgetry to generate, control and direct the super-
dooper ray-energy, no need to cart a generator
around. No finesse about it, either. But a .50-
caliber slug from a machine gun aboard a Flying
Fortress has proven to be an excellent instrument
for instructing Nazi and Jap fliers in good man-
ners. There’s no finesse about them, either, but
they can understand the impact of a high-velocity
slug. The Editor.

fiETTING ACQUAINUO WITH
HECaVER SERVICIHC

Toll in.iko this

I N S TR U -
WENT yourself
early In the

and audio stage.

LESSON IN RADIO

Here 9s a Partial List of Subjects this Lesson Teaches

WITH 3i PHOTOS. SKETCHES. RADIO DRAWINGS

How superheterodyne receivers
work

Bow to remove cubes, tubs
shields

Three reasons why radio tubes
fall

Electrodynauitc loudspeaker :
How It works
Replacing damaged cone
Recenterlng voice coll
Reutodles for open field coll

Gang tuning condenser:
Construction of rotor, atator
How capacity varies
Restringing dial cord
Straightening bent rotor
plates

l.P. transforinerB — What they
do, repair hints

How to locate defective sol*
dered Joints

Inside story of carbon re*
slstors

Paper, electrolytic, mica,
trimmer condensers

How condensers become
shorted, leaky

Antenna, oscillator coil facta
Power tansformcr: construc-
tion, possible troubles
loatalllng power cord
Troubles of combination vol-
ume control, on-off switch
Tone controls
Dial lamp connections
Receiver servicing technique:
Checking perlormance
Testing tubes
Circuit disturbance teat
Isolating defective stage
Locating defective part

See For Yourself How
I Train You at Home to

BE A RADNO
TECHNNCNAN

J. E. SMITH. President
National Radio Institute
Established 27 Years

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NAME . .

ADDRESS

CITY STATE

flPPOSITES-REACT!

By Will Stewart

First of Two Parts

• Sequel to "Collision Orbit" and "Minus Sign," this novel tells of men against
men — and against the strange and deadly problem of minus matter, cqntraterrene
matter. Men against men — for the men who learned the trick of living a tool to
work "seelee" in a baseplate of normal matter, could wrest control of the System!

Illustrated by Kolliker

‘'Captain Paul Anders!”

Announcing him, the aid’s curt, impersonal
voice made a hollow echo in the enormous metal
room ahead. Lean and spare in the black of the
High Space Guard, he came to straight attention.
He knew the man before him in the glittering
official room, and he was prepared for , a trying
interview.

“At ease, old man!” Austin Hood, Chief Com-

missioner of the High Space Mandate, returned
his crisp salute with a genial, unmilitary gesture.
Beyond the shimmer of the famous iridium desk,
Hood was red and bulky, loud with a bluff assur-
ance. “Glad to see you back here on the rocks.
Sit down and tell me all about your leave.”
Hood’s red fat face was smiling, with a poli-
tician’s ready smile. But his small eyes remained
shrewd and cold — they were used to judging men,

ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION

Anders thought, like pawns to be played. His
hearty, booming voice gave Anders no time to
tell about the leave.

“Five years since I’ve been back to Earth. How’d
you find the sea food at Panama City? Go down
to the Ocean Room? What I miss the most, out on
these damned dry rocks. Sick of canned and dried
and frozen food. For just one oyster plate, with
old Armand’s sauce, down under the dome of the
Ocean Room — ’’

His fat shoulders heaved to a gigantic sigh.

Anders sat down on a hard metal chair. He saw
his application for retired status, lying alone on
that bright expanse of costly metal, and caught his
breath to speak about it. But Hood’s loud public
voice boomed on:

“Glad to see you reporting so fit for duty, cap-
tain. Must have been quite an ordeal you went
through, on that runaway asteroid. Ametine
shock, internal injuries, fractured arm.’’ His
small, watchful eyes studied the tall man in black.
“See the Earth has bleached a little of the space-
burn out of you. But you spatial engineers are a
hearty lot — and damned lucky for Interplanet.
Because I’ve got a new job waiting for you.’’

“Moment, commissioner.” Anders nodded
gravely, at the paper on the desk. “See you have
my application for retirement. I want to leave the
Guard and Interplanet.”

Hood swung forward heavily in his big metal
chair. His eyes were hard and calculating. “Our
doctors report you fit as ever.” Now his voice
was eloquent with scorn. “Did you lose your
nerve along with your ship on that peculiar rock?”

Anders tried not to get angry, because he knew
that was what Hood wanted.

“No.” He shook his dark head slowly. “But
I've had six months of nothing much to do but
think. S’pose my viewpoint changed. I’ve worked
ten years for Interplanet. Now I want to open
an office of my own, as an independent consulting
engineer.”

“You can’t quit Interplanet.” That was a loud
assertion. Hood rocked back on the springs of
his noiseless chair and smiled his red, genial smile
again. “Because it’s in your blood. I knov? your
people, captain. Spatial engineers, for three gen-
erations.”

Anders tried to interrupt, but Hood ignored
him.

“Your family has been loyal to Interplanet. And
Interplanet has repaid you with the wealth of
space. Maybe some of the old space families have
gone to seed, but you haven’t, captain. You have
served us ably, from Venus to Callisto. One of
our top-flight spatial engineers. We can’t let
you go.”

Anders hesitated, frowning.

“Interplanet used to be a sort of shining religion

to me,” he said slowly. “But now I’m not so sure
of things.”

“Nonsense!” Hood's red face turned redder, and
his red fist banged the bright iridium desk. “You’ve
just been mooning around the hospitals too long.
A tour of active duty will snap you out of it.
Your record shows that you are neither a coward
nor an idealistic fool. And, remember, you’re still
under my command.”

"Yes, sir,” Anders said.

“But you must realize that Interplanet is now
in grave danger, captain.” Hood’s pliant voice
turned back to conciliation. “You know the Man-
date is only a makeshift crutch, invented after the
war to prop up peace among the planets. You
can see that it’s already beginning to totter. When
it falls we’ll have Mars and Venus and the Jovian
Union at our throats again. I’m on the inside, here
at Pallasport, and I can see things getting blacker
for Earth and Interplanet every day. You’re an
Earthman, first, captain. You can’t desert your
native planet in the middle of this emergency.
You don’t mean that?”

“No.” Anders sat straighter, lean and ready in
the black. “Not when you put it that way, com-
missioner. I don’t much like the Mandate, but I
can see it’s better than war. Consider my applica-
tion withdrawn.

“And what are my orders?”

"Knew you’d see your duty, captain.” Beaming
genially, Hood opened a platinum humidor.
“Have a cigar. Handmade, and fresh from Cuba.
Get them duty-free, y’know, in the diplomatic
mail.”

Anders held the blond cigar unlit, waiting.

“Your job’s a simple one.” Exhaling blue smoke,
Hood waved his cigar expansively. “You can
guess what it is, because you’re the only com-
petent contraterrene engineer we’ve got in the
service. All you have to do is — get seetee for
Interplanet.”

Anders didn’t move. He knew about the contra-
terrene drift. He knew that seetee was a key to
illimitable power, both physical and political.
Because a pebble of it, in contact with any normal
matter, reacted with the energy of a ton of deto-
nating tritonite. He also knew why spacemen
called it hell in chunks.

“Don’t you think it can’t be done!” Hood
peered shrewdly at his stiff brown face. “Because
somebody is going to get seetee — soon. Biggest
thing since paragravity. Whoever gets it can
smash the Mandate like a seetee meteor colliding
with a ship. It had better be us!”

Anders nodded gravely. If the flood of flaming
power from that matter-annihilating reaction could
be tamed and controlled, he knew what it would
mean for the arts of war and peace. But he also

OPPOSITES— REACT J

knew the heartbreaking difficulties still in the
way.

"You’ve got to win the race.” Hood’s voice was
a throbbingv oratoric drum. “Because it means
another hundred years for Interplanet. It means
a new empire that can reach out to Pluto and
Persephone. It means more billions than you can
imagine — and Interplanet can be generous, cap-
tain.”

The spare black shoulders merely shrugged.
Anders intended to try his best to complete one
more job for Interplanet, but he found no inspira-
tion in the commissioner’s dream of a reborn in-
terplanetary empire. As for himself, he had al-
ready made money enough.

“You’ll have competition.” Hood's loud voice
boomed on. “The Venusians and the Jovians are
»n the race, as well as these damned asterites.
Nobody can find exactly what the Martians are
up to. but here’s one clue you may find interest-
ing.”

He opened a locked drawer in the huge bright
desk and took out a small stereo-viewer. Snap-
ping a reel of film into place he slid it across the
shimmering metal. Anders picked it up, won-
dering.

“That film came out of the vaults of the Martian
commissioner.” Hood made a red, hearty grin.
“It lost me forty thousand Mandate dollars, but
I imagine old Muhlbacher would give a million
to have it back. Go ahead and run it off.”

Anders put the little instrument to his face and
pressed the stud to start the quiet mechanism.
The film showed a view of space with the stars
magnified to tiny, colored halation disks on a
field of frosty black. A meteor was tumbling
across the field, with the Sun glinting on it. As
it came hurtling nearer the camera, he saw that
its shape was peculiar.

‘‘What’s this?” he whispered suddenly. “Looks
like a needle — a golden needle!”

The mechanism hummed with a muted vibration,
and the spinning object came nearer in the lenses.
Glancing in the sunlight, it was hard and real
against the gulf of infinite night. The larger
end was jagged, as if it were the broken tip of
something longer,

“Eh!” Anders caught his breath. For a tiny
human figure swam before the camera, disguised
in bulky, silver-painted, dirigible armor. Its near-
ness brought the other object into startling stereo-
scopic perspective.

The needle ^vas huge. It must be a hundred
meters long. Anders estimated, from glittering
point to jagged base. Probably five meters thick,
through the base.

The man in space armor flew to the large end,
and the camera followed him. The needle was
hollow, Anders saw. The Sun swept in as it spun.
He glimpsed a spiral ramp, winding up inside the

’nollow shaft, with a silver-colored hand rail above
it.

Something was queerly wrong about that ramp
and railing. For a moment Anders felt a dull op-
pression of bewilderment. Then, with a sharp
little start almost of apprehension, he realized
what was the matter. The sloping ramp was too
narrow. The railing, in proportion, was far too
high.

He put down the instrument to stare into Hood’s
shrewd eyes. His clipped Earthman’s voice held
a tremor of controlled excitement. “That’s a non-
terrestial artifact. That footway wasn’t intended
for men !”

“But you haven’t seen the half— -look again!”

He started the film again. Now the camera and
that bright-armored man had retreated a full kilo-
meter from the golden needle. The man was aim-
ing a spatial automatic. After one puzzled mo-
ment, Anders understood.

“Couldn’t be!”

He gasped that stunned protest. For he knew
that contact was the only test to distinguish the
contraterrene type of matter, and a shot was the
routine testing procedure. If the annihilated
bullet exploded like a hundred kilograms of steel-
cased tritonite, it would mean — something im-
possible !

The gun jerked back against the armored hand.
It made a tiny spurt of yellow against the black
of space. Watching desperately, Anders must
have forgotten where he was, for the silent, incan-
descent blast made him duck. The short film
ended.

“Well?” Hood demanded. “What do you make
of that?”

“ ’Stounding!” Anders stared at the mirrorlike
desk top. trying to organize his thoughts. “I
know the theories, that the drift was formed when
a wandering seetee body collided with the old
trans-Martian planet. But I never imagined —
beings! That needle would seem to be an artifact
— think of it — of contraterrene life!”

“Our Martian rivals evidently made the same
inference.” Regarding his visible excitement with
a sly twinkle. Hood commented triumphantly.
“Now, captain, you don’t seem quite so anxious
to open an office of your own!”

“Seems you always win, commissioner.” Anders
grinned, and started asking eager questions. “But
who took this film? Where? What was the orbit
of that object? What became — ”

“Hold on, captain.” Hood held up his huge
red hand. “Your other questions will be part of
your job. But the sources from which I bought
the film informed me that it was taken by a
Martian-German agent, who uses the name of
Franz von Falkenberg.”

“Von Falkenberg?” Anders frowned. “I almost
remember — ”

ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION

“Maybe you heard his name at the treason
trials.” The commissioner leaned forward gravely.
“He was back of that plot, you know, to steal our
range finder for the Martian Reich. All the others
were sentenced to life on Pallas IV, but von
Falkenberg was smart enough to get away. We
don’t even have a good description of him.”

“I remember now.” Anders nodded suddenly.
“That happened while I was on special leave, build-
ing a uranium refinery for the Jovians, on Callisto.
And I’ve seen a book of von Falkenberg’s — a
mathematical analysis of the orbits, to find the
origin point of the drift.”

“Top-drawer spatial engineer,” Hood said. “Be-
sides which, he’s a trained soldier and a fanatic
Aryanist — waiting for the first chance to rewrite
the Treaty of Space in blood. Preferably Earth-
man’s blood. Better keep him in mind.”

“Done, commissioner.” Anders grinned. “Now
what?”

“Your tour of duty will begin at once.” Hood
returned the little viewer and its film to the locked
drawer. “You will retain your nominal status as
a captain in the Guard, because that will attract
the least attention.”

Anders nodded.

“Our inside organization is behind you,” Hood
went on. “Of course you can expect some trouble
from the alien elements in the Guard. But we’ve
already made arrangements for a ship — the cruiser
Challenge, just commissioned at the yards on
Pallas II — with a crew we can trust to be loyal.”

Anders made another brown grin. “Traitors,
you mean.”

Hood’s red face showed pain.

"Loyalty to Interplanet is no fit cause for
levity,” he said stiffly. “Not even when it does
involve technical treason to the Mandate. You
know the Guard.”

Anders nodded soberly, for he did know the
High Space Guard. The Treaty of Space stipu-
lated that the Guard, like the Mandate Commis-
sion, must be formed on a ratio of two men from
the Earth-Moon Union, and one each from Venus,
Mars, and the Jovian Soviet, All were required
to swear allegiance to the Mandate. But many,
like Franz von Falkenberg — and Anders himself
— remained loyal to their native planets. “Strip
a guardsman,” cynics put it, “and you’ll catch a
spy.”

Now, supposing the interview had ended, Anders
rose. But Hood motioned him to wait, and took
up a small clip of papers from the iridium desk.
Scanning them, the commissioner said briskly;

“Your first task will be to find out what these
damned asterites are up to. This old Drake and
his son have claimed an airless rock, Freedonia,
and set up what they call a metallurgy lab. Prob’ly

they’re working on seetee, right here under our
noses.”

“Likely,” Anders agreed. “I know young
Drake.”

Rick Drake had saved his life, Anders reflected,
when they met on that runaway asteroid. Because
of that incident, he still regarded the young
asterite engineer with a perverse hostility,

“Worst thing, my own niece has joined them!”
Hood cleared his throat with a sound like an
angry bellow. “My own flesh and blood — but I
can’t do a thing with her. She has opened an
office for them, right here in Pallasport, But you
met Karen?”

“I did,” Anders shrugged with a rueful brown
smile. “Most beautiful and charming young
woman. First thought we were fellow cosmo-
politans. But seems she preferred Rich Drake.”

“Damned asterite!” Hood’s fat face was crim-
son. “And Kay had the confounded nerve to
announce her engagement to him.” The small
eyes turned shrewd again. “Get seetee, and maybe
you can win her back.”

“Not a chance,” Anders said. “She’s in love
with Rick.”

“I was hoping you could manage her.” Hood
sighed regretfully. “Seems able to outsmart every
move we make, against the firm of Drake, McGee &
Drake. And I used to think pretty girls were
dumb!”

Thinking of Karen's flame-colored hair, Anders
said nothing.

“Visit Freedonia.” Hood went on. “Young Drake
is mostly there, working with his father in this
mysterious lab. The old man is the pioneer con-
traterrene engineer, you know — invented the seetee
blinker. And you’ll investigate two other aster-
ites with the Drakes.”

His fat, pink fingers riffled the papers.

“One is a girl named Ann O’Banion. Comes
from little Obania. Daughter of a decayed asterite
politician. Both she and her father suspected of
connection with the Free Space Party, but we
never got any evidence. If you can find a pretext,
ship them both off to Pallas IV.”

Anders made quick notes on a tiny pad.

“Your other suspect is an old rock rat, known
as Rob McGee. Skipper of the Good-by Jane, a
broken-down space tug. He’s at Pallasport now,
having a new engine installed and taking on a
cargo consigned to Ann O’Banion, on Obania —
but prob’ly really intended for this lab on Free-
donia. Here’s a copy of his manifest.”

'Tve met McGee.” Anders spoke with remem-
bered awe. “Maybe just a rock rat — but a mighty
queer one. Tell you the time to the second with-
out a watch. Or glance at a meteor a thousand
kilometers off and tell you the distance to the
fraction of a meteor, and the mass to the nearest
kilogram. Eh?”

OPPOSITES— REACT J

He bad been scanning the blurred, flimsy carbon
of the tug’s manifest. He caught a surprised
breath, and his gray eyes looked quickly across
the desk.

“McGee isn’t bound for Obania.’’ His black
shoulders drew straight. “Nothing here for any
sort of lab. Not even any regular fuel uranium.
Just tons of the special twelve percent concen-
trate. for that new engine, and other supplies for
the ship.’’

Hood’s small eyes blinked.

“Then you better find out where he is going!”

“Zactly.” Anders folded the thin yellow sheet
and moved to go. At the door of the huge metal
room he turned back, grinning. “So I’m the man
who came in here to retire? Seems you’re in-
vincible, commissioner !”

“Unless I meet my attractive niece." Hood’s
red face turned serious. “Better watch her, cap-
tain. Break a letter of the law and it will take a
million dollars’ worth of Interplanet legal talent
to keep her from shipping you to Pallas IV."

II.

Anders hurried back into the curving street.
He mounted the swell of the terraformed hill that
lifted Pallasport like a bright glass-and-metal knob
above the untamed waste of the minor planet.
Above the glittering piles of the governmental
buildings, he came striding up to the spaceport
on the crown of the hill.

On the floodlit field, under the crystal dark
of the night sky, he found the Good-by Jane.
Leaning askew on her battered ground gear, the
little tug resembled a tall steel box balanced pre-
cariously on end. Beside the open valve. Rob
McGee stood watching stevedores unload the
yellow-painted cadmium cans of fuel uranium
from a backed-up truck.

A sturdy, wide-shouldered figure in his ancient
greenish space coat, the master looked small and
and ugly and indestructible as his vessel. He
signed a receipt for the fuel metal, and the truck
departed. Then he turned calmly, drawling:

“Hello, Captain Anders.’’

“Glad to see you, McGee."

Smiling, he offered his hand. McGee shook it,
very solemnly. Then there was an awkward pause.
Somehow, Anders thought, he must have lost his
old careless ease on that runaway rock. Because,
for a moment, he couldn’t think of anything to
say.

He really liked McGee — that was the difficult
thing. He felt a keen, wondering interest in that
strange perception of space and time that made
McGee the born spaceman. And he pitied the
little man’s loneliness, set apart by his own strange
gift.

He liked McGee, but now they were enemies

again. It might soon be his duty to take the odd
little spaceman and his asterite friends to Pal-
las IV — for secret contraterrene research could
easily be construed as treason against the Man-
date.

But McGee, himself, seemed quite at ease. His
square, space-beaten face had a look of mild inter-
rogation, but he was calm as his native stars.
Silently, he began to fill a short black pipe.

Trying to seem casual, Anders lit a cigarette.
He glanced up at the rusty hull.

“Hear you’ve installed a new engine?”

McGee nodded, uncommunicative.

“My fault your old one was damaged, on that
runaway rock.” Anders felt apologetic. “All a
misunderstanding,” Suddenly he envied Hood’s
thick-skinned bluffness. “What's your accelera-
tion rating now?”

McGee told him, briefly, “Nine hundred.’’

“Eh?" Anders stared at the square, battered
hull. “So now you’ve got nearly the speed and the
range of a modern cruiser. Engine must have
cost a lot of money?”

McGee lit his pipe, then admitted:

“We’ve got money.”

“I know,” Anders said. “I saw those kilograms
of terraforming diamonds that you and young
Drake found on the runaway. Perjtaps you’re
looking for more?” He glanced at McGee’s stub-
born face. “Where are you bound?”

“Cleared for Obania.”

“I know.” Anders grinned. “But I happened
to see your manifest. Notice you’re loading mostly
twelve percent concentrate for that new engine-
enough to take you a hundred times that far.”
The space-tanned mask didn’t change.

“Where do you think I’m going?”

“Might be looking for something.” V/atching
through narrowed steel eyes, Anders tried a shot
in the dark. “You might be on the track of some-
thing very strange and old? Maybe a bit of the
seetee drift, that was shaped a hundred thousand
years ago — by beings with contraterrene tools?”
That changed the mask, with a hurt expression
that made Anders somehow uncomfortable. The
squinted eyes blinked. But the seamed square jaw
set again on the stem of that short black pipe.

“I’m not talking,” McGee drawled softly. “If
you’ve got any more questions, captain, you had
better come along to our office and see the man-
ager. Miss Hood does all our talking now.”
“That’s all right with me,” Anders agreed will-
ingly. “But the Guard will have to know where
you’re bound.”

McGee locked the valves of his ship and they
left the swelling field. Determinedly, the little
spaceman said nothing more. His small feet hur-
ried nimbly, to keep up with the strides of the
lean spare man in black.

ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION

Anders was thinking of Karen Hood, his brown
face faintly smiling. He had always known, really,
that he didn’t have a chance. Rick Drake had
always been the one, that bronze-haired, incoherent
giant. And that fact no longer hurt him now.
Yet he was conscious of a tingling eagerness at the
thought of seeing Karen.

Drake, McGee & Drake occupied a small but
modern building just below the field. An austere
fluorescent sign glowed above a chaste fagade
of satiny platinum. The effect, he thought, was
even swankier than the huge, expensive pile of
the new Interplanet building. A haughty blond
reception girl let them into Karen’s office.

The office was stunning. It was big enough to
berth a ship, and walled with mellow-tinted fluo-
rescent glass. The sleek furnishings were silver
and black obsidian. But the most stunning item
was Karen herself.

“Paul — I’m so glad!”

Cataclysmic even in her severe green business
suit, she utterly eclipsed the receptionist. She
came eagerly around the immense busy desk to
give him her strong cool hand. Her red hair had
the same intoxicating lights, and the way she
walked was still music, and her eyes were bright
with pleasure.

But he saw the big photograph over her desk,
in the shining obsidian frame. Rick Drake
grinned at him, the lean and awkward bronze-
haired giant. Anders made the photograph a
graceful little bow even as he took her hand.

“Congratulations, Kay!”

She followed his eyes to the picture and he saw
the devotion on her high-cheeked face. Her fine
skin flushed a little, and her warm expression
made a sharp little throb in his throat. But he
had always known that he didn’t have a chance.

“Some swank!” His eyes swept the room’s
chaste splendor, and indicated the departing re-
ceptionist. "Anybody’d think that Drake, McGee
& Drake had bought out Interplanet.”

“Good idea!” Her laugh was a bright little
bell. “Sit down, Paul, and tell me how you en-
joyed home. Looking well again. Don’t you want
a job? We need another good engineer, and I
think there’s room for your name on the sign.”

“Wish I'd seen you sooner.” Anders tried to
smile, but suddenly he felt as awkward as young
Rick Drake. “But I’ve just taken on a new assign-
ment for Interplanet.”

“Oh!” It was a cool, hurt sound.

Rob McGee had been standing in the gleaming
doorway, calm and shabby and silent, smoking his
old black pipe. Now he took it out of his mouth,
drawling quietly:

"You see, Miss Karen. Captain Anders got to
asking questions. He wants to know where I’m
bound, in the Jane. He thinks I’m loading too
much fuel, for Obania.”

Karen’s fine nostrils widened as she caught her
breath.

“Couldn’t help wondering.” Anders grinned,
watching her startled face. “Heard rumors of
some seetee artifacts, dating from before the Cata-
clysm. Thought McGee might be looking for
them.”

The color flowed out of her sensitive skin.

“You win, Paul.” Her marmoreal shoulders
made a flowing shrug of surrender and she turned
to McGee’s uncompromising face. “Go back and
get your logbook, Cap’n Rob. It’s lunch time, and
we’ll be at the Mandate House. Hurry!”

McGee made a squinted blink and then went out
deliberately.

“Clever, Paul.” She smiled at Anders, with
flattery in her wide blue eyes. “Now, seems we’ll
have to tell you everything. Quite a thrilling
story, but a long one. And I don’t think Rick
would mind ... I mean, he wouldn’t really quite
die ... if we have lunch together, just once
more, while we talk.”

Anders bowed to the photograph again and held
Karen’s coat. It was white Callistonian fur, as
swanky as the office. Her candid eyes were bright,
and he wanted to touch her flame-colored hair.

They went to the Mandate House and sat at a
quiet back table. Karen selected a steak for Rob
McGee, and a waiter took their orders. They
waited for the little spaceman. Karen was very
charming.

But Anders grew impatient.

“ ’Stounding thing!” He tried to hurry her
story. “Even the professors, with all their theories
of the Cataclysm, never dreamed of contraterrene
life. What do you s’pose they were like — those
beings?”

Karen gracefully stirred her tea, and his voice
went deep with a wondering awe.

"Y’know, when you think of those queer frag-
ments of their shattered planet, drifting in space
since before the time of men — it does something
to you.” He looked sharply into her wide blue
eyes. “How did you come to find them?”

“Cap’n Rob’s story.” She looked expectantly
toward the door. “Quite a thriller, too. Mustn’t
spoil it for him. You’ll have to wait till he gets
here with the log.” She smiled graciously. “Tell
me all about Panama City.”

Their orders came. McGee’s thick, smoking
steak was duly set out at the third place, but still
he didn’t come. Karen looked hopefully at the
door, presenting a breath-taking profile as she
murmured:

“I can’t imagine what — ”

Then the flash of suspicion brought Anders to
his feet. Heedless of his crashing chair and the
startled waiter, he stared accusingly into the
girl’s brightly innocent face. Her blue-eyed won-

OPPOSITES— RE ACT J

derment turned suspicion into certainty. Chok-
ing, he found no words.

“Bright boy, Paul!” Her red head nodded ap-
provingly. “Knew you’d catch on.”

He gripped the edges of the little table, trem-
bling with wrath. The girl merely smiled gayly
up at him. Slowly he became aware of the uneasy
waiter and the staring diners across the long
room. His brown face flushed.

Still he found nothing to say, for the most of
his anger was directed at his own stupidity. The
trap had been so simple and transparent, and he
had fallen so completely. Savagely, he thought
he should have arrested McGee on the field.

“Be a sport, Paul!” Karen was laughing at
him, “Sit dowm and eat your lunch. Cap’n Rob
must be fifty thousand kilometers at space by now,
and there's nothing much that you can do about
it.”

Grinning, he let the relieved waiter set up his
chair.

“That wasn’t very nice, Kay.”

“Wasn’t it?” Baby-blue, her eyes were very
innocent. “Perhaps it’s just because I used to
work for Interplanet. All I know is what they
taught me,” She smiled, too sweetly. “But the
Jane was legally cleared. We haven’t committed
any crime. And your plate’s getting cold.”

He resisted the impulse to slap her.

“But it’s true, Kay?” He leaned urgently across
the table. “You’ve really found artifacts from
before the Cataclysm, and McGee has started after
them? What are they? Writing? Carvings?
Tools? Machines?”

She tossed her bright hair.

“Don’t ask silly questions. Paul.” Her eyes
turned grave. “Drake. McGee & Drake are doing
no contraterrene research for Interplanet. If you
want to find out what we know, you’ll just have
to join the firm.”

“Sorry, I can’t do that.”

"Then eat your lunch.” That infuriating sweet-
ness left her smile. “Try to forgive me, and let’s
talk about Panama City.”

Anders grinned and attacked his plate. He
answered her questions about the theater season
in Panama City — the critics had said that all the
plays were bad, but he enjoyed them. And Karen
wasn’t hard to forgive. He even paid cheerfully
for the neglected steak that she had ordered for
Rob McGee.

III.

Anders escorted Karen back to her platinum
door. She had won a total victory, for Drake,
McGee & Drake. For he knew that the Good-by
Jane, with her powerful new engine, was now far
beyond pursuit. The riddle of the seetee artifacts
would have to wait for answer.

Yet the tall Garthman, returning to the space-
port with long, impatient strides, found the mys-
tery growing in his mind. The theories of the
Cataclysm had always seemed remote and im-
probable abstractions. But today’s events had
made that cosmic disaster immediate and real.

Two planets colliding! He made a dazed effort
to picture the scene. The destroyed fifth planet
had been an older world than Mars; only slightly
larger, the German theorists believed. Perhaps
it had carried ancient life— or the monuments and

ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION

bones of life fulfilled and dead before men came
on the younger Earth. Not even the German pro-
fessors knew that.

The Invader had been slightly smaller. It was
all of contraterrene matter — stuff of nuclear nega-
trons and orbital positrons, electrically opposite
to the matter of Earth and the doomed fifth planet.
Some unguessed freak of the cosmos must have
flung it from its native seetee system, and not
even the Germans knew what untold ages it had
wandered the interstellar void.

It had carried seetee life. The von Falkenberg
film was evidence of that. Anders was haunted
with a disturbing memory of that too-narrow
ramp, winding up inside the hollow golden needle,
with its queerly too-high railing.

What had been the builders of that enigmatic
contraterrene monument? He tried to picture the
things that must have walked that footway and
failed. He couldn’t even quite believe in contra-
terrene life.

Yet seetee, he knew, formed exactly the same
series of elements and compounds as terrene mat-
ter, identical except for electrical sign. If the
chemistry and the physics of it were identical,
why not the biology?

A contraterrene man. he reflected, would never
be aware of his plight. Not unless he happened to
come into contact with normal matter. Anders
wondered for a moment if any inhabitants of the
Invader had indeed survived the crash. That
would be a grisly predicament — to be lost amid
planets whose soil and water and very air meant
flaming annihilation.

“Nonsense !”

Anders was a practical man. His strenuous
profession had left him little time or inclination
for such fantastic speculations. Such wild
hypotheses were better left for the German aca-
demicians. He reached the spaceport and took
a Guard tender for the base on Pallas II.

On that tiny fortress moon — one of the six
terraformed rocks that had been towed into a
wheeling ring of forts and stations about the
minor planet — he found the Challenge waiting
for his command.

The ship was a long new paragravity cruiser,
black-camouflaged, mounting two heavy spatial
rifles in each of her counterbalanced turrets. She
was twelve thousand tons of racing, fighting metal,
a match for anything in space.

He was less well pleased with the crew.

Commander Mikhail Ivanovich Protopopov was
a huge, shambling, bearlike Callistonian, of Ukrai-
nian ancestry. His broad, puttylike face seemed to
Anders both sly and stupid. He had a peculiar,
blubbery, moronic-sounding laugh. His voice was
a hoarse, grating whisper — the result, he said, of
years in the care of the Soviet secret police. For
he admitted that he had been a member of the

unfortunate Neo-Leonist Party, himself fortunate
enough to survive the fatally disappointing recep-
tion of the Europa Manifesto. Escaping to the
Mandate, he had found refuge in the Guard.

Lieutenant Commander Luigi Muratori was a
dark little Martian-Italian, with shifty, black, em-
bittered eyes. He walked with a silent limp. He
said that he had come to high space in conse-
quence of the bloody suppression of the anti-
Aryanist movement. His limp and his scars dated
from the pogroms that celebrated the Treaty of
Space.

Warrant Officer Suzuki Omura was a toothy,
spectacled, efficient little Venusian-Japanese. smil-
ing and over-polite. In a hissing, conspiratorial
whisper, he pledged the support of his ambitious
but unfortunate race.

“So nice, Captain Anders! So very pleasant,
that honorable Interplanet Corporation and my
poor brave people join together now. We are
very poor and humble, captain. Our only wish
is to lead the stupid majority of Chinese and
Indonesian Venusians into the greater prosperity
of the new order our leaders have planned. Now
that we have the support of your honorable rich
Interplanet, our plans cannot fail. Everything
is going to be so very, very pleasant.”

But Anders wasn’t sure of that.

The spacemen were as polyglot as their officers.
For a clause in the Treaty of Space, hopefully but
not very successfully intended to promote the
unity of the Guard, provided that the officers and
men should be selected in the proper ratio from all
the major planets.

Commissioner Hood’s inside organization, com-
posed of the ranking Earthman of the Guard,
had found forty men all willing, for reasons of
birth or politics or their own, to pledge their
loyalty for Interplanet dollars. But Anders, after
he had met the hostile and inquisitive suspicion
of the high officers from the other major planets,
couldn’t escape a haunting apprehension.

His orders were secret. He determined to trust
his officers and men no further than necessary.
When they were alone in the gray-padded cone
of the forward bridge, up in the cruiser’s tapered
nose, he told Protopopov:

“Officially, ^commander, our purpose is to re-
chart a few of the more dangerous swarms of
seetee drift. You can tell the men that we are
also testing a secret new device for the long-range
identification of seetee.”

The Jovian exile nodded, with a cunning glint
in his small, slate-colored eyes. He had already
been given to understand, by Hood’s “insiders,”
that the actual mission of the Challenge was to
track down a fifth column of spies and asterite
malcontents suspected of preparing secret bases
for a blitz against the Mandate by the Martian

OPPOSITES— REACT !

Reich. In that hoarse, voiceless whisper, he agreed
sagely:

"Misdirection is a wise precaution, sir.”

“Our first landing." Anders stated, “will be on
Obania.”

For he wanted to find out if McGee had actually
gone there with the Cood-by Jane. He hoped, be-
sides. to learn something about the asterite labora-
tory on nearby Freedonia. For Obania was the
home of two more of the suspects on his list — old
Jim Drake, and Ann O’Banion.

“Aye. sir." Protopopov’s dark, waxlike, stupid-
seeming face brightened suddenly with an inven-
tion of his own. “The Martian officers at the
Obania base must be deceived,” he whispered.
“Shall we inform them that we are hunting down
a gang of refiners, engaged in bootlegging un-
taxed fuel-uranium?"

“Ex’lent, commander.” Anders grinned.

A shakedown voyage of less than two days
brought the Challenge to Obania. The red flash
of a photophone challenged them, from the control
tower at the tiny base, and gave permission to
land. A tall, black, torpedo shape, the cruiser
dropped endwise to the polar plateau of the two-
kilometer planet.

While Commander Protopopov, with his fable of
the illicit refiners, went to pay an official call on
the Martian-German subaltern, Anders set out in
search of information.

Tall and trim in military black, the Earthman
stepped briskly down from the cruiser’s stern
valve. Above the tiny, convex field, the sky was
depthless midnight. The low, small Sun made
a blinding daxzle against the gravel walks, the
six-sided tower under the quartered Mandate flag,
and everything within the near horizon.

Anders drew his black shoulders straight, with
a conqueror's pride. Luxuriously, he inhaled the
cool, thin, synthetic air. Clean and bracing in
his lungs, it had a winelike tang of ozone. With
a quick and energetic stride, he started toward the
commercial docks.

For Obania made him feel a conqueror. Once
an atom of dead rock, it was now an island of life.
The spatial engineers, with slip sticks for swords,
had captured these new outposts for men from
the cold eternal enemy night. Paul Anders, like
his father, belonged to that mighty race.

When he came into the commercial area, how-
ever. the pride of the conqueror fell. For here,
beyond the new paint and the brisk efficiency of
the military base, the deserted mercantile docks
were sagging with neglect. A row of abandoned
ore barges, streaked with red rust, jarred his sense
of victory.

He paused a moment, frowning. Here the
bright triumph of the spatial engineers had ended
ingloriously in stagnation and decay. Somehow,
he felt, mankind had been cheated out of all the

splendid heritage the engineers had won.

What was wrong?

Impatiently, he shook that vexing question off.
For, he told himself, he wasn’t a social philosopher.
He was just a working engineer, and now he had
a job to do. An important job, to help restore
the waning, threatened power of Interplanet.

Two shabby old men were laboriously pitching
dollars at two small holes in the gravel by a
rusty dock, where once the ships had landed.
Hastily, they pocketed their coins as Anders ap-
proached.

“Do you know a girl named Ann O’Banion?”
Seeing their hostile glances at his black uniform,
he added, truthfully: “Captain McGee had a

shipment for her.”

“Reckon you’ll find her at O’Banion’s old
house,” one of them drawled reluctantly. “Down
at the other pole. No, there’s her little car, agin’
the rail. She must be down at the Stellar Queen."

His head jerked vaguely, and Anders went on.
He paused to glance at the little electric car. It
was a curious, battered machine, looking as if it
had been assembled out of junk parts, newly re-
painted in the vivid color known as seetee blue.
Somehow, it made him wonder about Ann
O’Banion.

A native of this tiny ghost planet, what would
she be? The Earthman couldn’t quite imagine any
such cramping imprisonment, because his own
horizons had extended from hot Venus to the
gray, eternal chill of Callisto. He felt a dim sense
of pity.

Beyond the row of rusting barges he found the
Stellar Queen. Royal in name only, it was even
smaller and more ancient than Rob McGee’s little
space tug. Bright meteor blisters, deeply pocked
into its rusty hull, showed that it had recently
met a fire storm.

On the dilapidated dock beside its open valve
was a pile of crates and boxes and fuel drums,
all stenciled in green fluorescent paint, Drake,
McGee & Drake, Freedonia. Beside the pile stood
a huge, red-bearded man, shouting at a boyish-
looking girl in blue slacks.

“T’ousand dollar !” The red giant, evidently the
skipper of the Stellar Queen, shrugged vehe-
mently. “Million dollar! Keep it. I don’t like
fire storm. I tank I’m going back to Ceres.”

“But you promised, Captain Erickson.” Pro-
testing, the girl sounded desperate. “And I just
must get these supplies to Freedonia. The Drakes
will be starving. They’ll freeze without any fuel.
Their air units will stop. You must — ”

“Charter one trip.” Captain Erickson shook his
blond head, doggedly. “One wa.s enough. I don’t
like seetee.”

“I can get you through again,” the girl insisted
urgently. Her dark head moved, and Anders saw

ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION

the silver glint of a space pilot’s badge on her
cap. “I know every pebble of that drift. And
we just can’t leave them marooned there. You
did promise Rob McGee, to keep Freedonia sup-
plied — ”

“Where is McGee?” Erickson dourly inquired.
That was what Anders wanted to know, but the
red-bearded spaceman gave the girl no time to
answer. “Let him run that drift if he wants to
be a fool. But I ain’t ready to go to hell.”

“Wait, captain!” The girl seemed almost fran-
tic. "Please — ”

But the skipper didn’t wait. He turned and
ponderously mounted the accommodation steps of
the humble Stellar Queen. The girl ran after him,
but the rusty outer valve shut in her face with
an emphatic clang.

Turning slowly away, she came face to face
with Anders. Tears of anger and distress were
bright in her gray eyes. A wisp of dark hair
trailed out from under her red space cap. Her
face and her round bare arms were brown and
freckled with rayburn. Tall in the slacks and
sweater, she no longer looked boyish at all.

Maybe she wasn’t exactly beautiful. Certainly
she was far different from the sleek creations of
the beauty salons in Panama City, and even Pallas-
port. But she looked abundantly healthy and
thoroughly angry and not at all as if she wanted
pity for being a native of Obania.

“Pardon, Miss O’Banion?”

Anders felt a sudden awkwardness as he intro-
duced himself. He didn’t quite know why. for he
had mastered the social codes of four planets.
But suddenly he knew he would very much regret
it if he had to take this tall, space-tanned girl
to the prison on Pallas IV.

IV.

She looked startled.

“E’lieve you’re connected with the engineering
firm of Drake. McGee & Drake.” he told her easily.
“I’m looking for McGee. D’ you happen to know
where I’ll find him?”

The anger in her wet gray eyes changed to
watchful hostility.

“Oh! So you’re the Interplanet engineer?” Her
cool tone indicated that Interplanetary engineers
were quite unnecessary. “Cap’n McGee went to
Pallasport,” she told him gravely. “To have a
new engine installed in the Jane.”

“He had it installed.” Anders watched her
brown, uneasy face. “He left Pallasport five days
ago. His papers were cleared for Obania.”

"He hasn’t come back.” He thought she didn’t
seem much concerned over the fact that McGee
was now some three or four days overdue. “If
you don’t believe me. ask your friends at the base.
Now, captain, my father’s waiting for me.”

She turned away toward the battered little car.

"Wait, Miss O’Banion.” She looked back in-
quiringly. She failed to hide the dark trouble on
her face, or the bright tears in her eyes again.
“I ... I overheard your talk with Captain Erick-
son,” he said awkwardly. “You were trying to
charter his ship?”

She came back to him, hesitantly. He grinned
at the wet streaks on her face, and suddenly she
smiled in return. Her teeth were fine and even.
Her gray eyes, for all the tears, were clear and
warm and honest.

“I may as well tell you,” she said slowly.
“Probably you know we have a little open-space
metallurgy laboratory out on Freedonia? Well,
the Drakes are working there, and they need sup-
plies and fuel. Erickson had agreed to supply
them while Cap’n Rob is gone. But we ran into
a pinch of seetee dust, and now he won’t go back.”
Her smile had faded, and she disapprovingly eyed
the star of the Guard on his collar. “But there’s
no use in telling you.”

“I don’t know.” Anders grinned again, hope-
fully. “You see, my expedition is making a new
survey of the dangerous drift. Evidently, that is
going to take us to Freedonia. And we’re sup-
posed to aid civilians in distress, y’ know. S’pose
we take your supplies to Freedonia?”

“Oh, thank you!” For an instant Ann O’Banion
was beautiful with gladness. Then her face turned
grave again and she spoke with sharp mistrust.
“But why do you want to do that?”

"Maybe ’cause I like the freckles on your nose."

She drew back a little and then decided not to
be offended. Her ray-tanned face was very seri-
ous. “You really will do it?” she asked doubt-
fully. “This isn’t just another Interplanet trick?
Promise?”

“We’re going to Freedonia,” he told her. “Take
this stuff, if you like. No difference to me.”

“Then I’ll go,” she said suddenly.

“You?” He grinned at her. “We were talking
about freight.”

“Please!” He thought her voice was oddly
urgent. “I simply must.”

He nodded. “Pleasure.”

“Thank you, captain!” Her wet eyes smiled
again. “When are you leaving?”

“Tonight,” he told her. "I’ll have your cargo
loaded.”

“Maybe I was wrong, captain.” Candidly, her
gray eyes searched his face. “Maybe I was preju-
diced, just because you work for Interplanct.
Maybe you’re not so — ” She flushed and bit her
Up and looked confused. But he grinned cheer-
fully and she smiled. “Please, captain,” she said
impulsively, “won’t you come to dinner?”

"Pleasure,” Anders said instantly.

• He returned to the Challenge and left orders
with Muratori to load her shipment of supplies.

OPPOSITES— REACT !

She waited for him with the little car, and he
jackknifed himself into the narrow seat beside
her.

Ann O’Banion’s tanned hands were skillful at
the wheel. She drove him south, over the top-
pling near horizon. Watching the grace of her
bare arms, and her pleasing face with its hints of
strength and honesty and humor, and the rebel
wisp of dark hair, he wondered more than ever
what she really was.

“Obania comes from O’Banion?” he inquired.

Her red cap nodded toward the rusting derrick
above an empty, abandoned pit. Hanging from it
was a fading sign :

Uranium Prince No. 1

O'Bonlon Mining Co.

“Dad was the pioneer here, back before the war,”
she told him. “Mr. Drake came with him to install
the terraformer and the mining equipment and a
little refinery. He made a little money till the war.
But the Mandate closed the refinery.”

Her voice seemed to hold no bitterness. She
was merely stating sober fact. “Rick Drake and
I were both born here. He went away to school
on Earth. I didn’t have money enough. There
is still ore in the rock, but dad would never sell
out to Interplanet — and they taxed him out of
business.”

She looked aside at his interested face.

“I don’t know why I’m telling you all of this.”

“Because I really want to know,” Anders told
her.

The road dipped under black iron bluffs, and
they drove through the town. It was a single
street of flimsy metal buildings, half of them
abandoned now. On one tall, rusty false front
he read another faded sign:

Drake & McGee, Spatial Engineers

“Quite a contrast.”

He was thinking of Karen’s swanky new office.
But that thought brought his eyes back to the
tanned frontier girl at the wheel. He couldn’t
help contrasting her unspoiled simplicity with
Karen’s sophisticated loveliness. Something made
him smile.

“Am I amusing, captain?”

“Sorry,” he said. “Just wondering what you
were.”

“And now you know?”

“I think I’d like to know.”

She drove faster. As the silent little car plunged
down over the tiny planet’s curve, he had to resist
an impulse to clutch at the seat. They skidded to
a breath-taking stop.

Old O’Banion’s metal mansion .was boldly
perched on a dark, lofty crag. Big and angular.

AST— 2P

it was embellished with the chromium ginger-
bread in style forty years ago, stained and tar-
nished now.

Ann was out before he could extricate himself
from the tiny car. He followed her up between
the imposing chromium columns. She seemed out
of breath, but she gave him a quick little smile
before they went in.

She introduced her father. Bruce O’Banion
was a big, shaggy man, with tarnished war medals
on his faded uniform — he had led a little asterite
fleet against Interplanet. His lips had a bitter sag
and the veins on his nose and temples were red
from too much drinking.

Anders had hoped for some chance reference to
the laboratory on Freedonia or the mysterious
voyage of Rob McGee or even to the outlawed
Free Space Party. But Ann fixed the stooped
old man with warning eyes.

“Captain Anders, dad.” Her faintly malicious
smile made Anders wonder if he hadn’t been mis-
taken about any unspoiled simplicity. “He’s the
Interplanet engineer who followed Rick and Cap’n
Rob out to that runaway rock, and tried to take
their diamonds, remember?”

“Eh?” muttered the tall Earthman uncomfort-
ably. “Anyhow, I didn't get them.”

As charmingly demure as Karen Hood had ever
been, she led them into the long front room, old-
fashioned and threadbare and very clean. Anders
made a confused effort to revise his idea of
sophistication. Perhaps it was something that
could be acquired as readily on a frontier rock
as in the salons of Panama City.

“Yes, Mr. O'Banion, I know Rick Drake,” he
attempted hopefully when she had left them alone.
“He and his father must be doing some very
interesting work. Have you seen that new lab of
theirs on Freedonia?”

But old Bruce O’Banion made a derisive snort
and began to talk about the greater days before
the war. Never a hint of a contraterrene lab,
or artifacts from the Invader. Anders rose with
relief when Ann called them to dinner.

Evidently she had cooked it herself, and it was
good. The roast dehydrated beef and mashed
dehydrated potatoes didn’t taste dehydrated. An-
ders accepted a second portion of dried-apricot
cobbler, and observed that Ann looked charming
in a blue apron.

The Challenge was standing beside the rusty
dock when they drove back to the spaceport. The
supplies had been loaded. Ann parked her little
car and they took off for Freedonia.

He let her come with him to the gray-walled
bridge. She watched the instruments with a
lively interest as he set up their course on the
pilot-robot, and commented that she had learned

ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION

her astragation from Rob McGee. He offered to
find her a cabin.

“Thanks, but I’ll stay up," she told him, “It’s
only five hours, with the acceleration you're using,
and I’m not sleepy. Besides, you’ll need me for
a pilot, coming in. There’s really a good deal
of the drift.”

Suzuki, executive officer of the watch, kept
politely to the after control room, and Anders
enjoyed the flight. While the pilot-robot held
the course, he encouraged Ann to talk. It was
mostly of her childhood on Obania. She had
attended a one-room school that her mother taught
for the miner’s children. Her father had a little
library, and old Jim Drake taught her mathe-
matics, Rick Drake had been a playmate until he
went back to Earth. Of course it seemed lonely
when she grew up, with the mines shut down and
everybody leaving.

“But things are going to be different now!”

Her gray eyes were shining, and her voice was
light and happy. Anders felt elated, too. He had
talked more than usual of his own early life,
when his time was divided between his mother’s
expensive apartment in Panama City and long
trips to space with his engineer father.

Presently he had a supper set for them down
in the wardroom. He ordered a bottle of wine,
but Ann wouldn’t let him open it.

“I feel gay enough, just from talking to you.”
She smiled, and her tanned face had a glow of
excitement. “Besides, it’s really dangerous, com-
ing in to Freedonia. Remember Captain Erick-
son. You'll have to let me pilot you in.”

They returned to the bridge.

The Challenge had none of the broad ports of
a liner’s promenade. Enemy fire or the meteor
drift might smash them too easily. Anders went
to the hooded main periscope, whose narrow tubes
penetrated the steel and lead and gray plastifoam
lining of the tapered hull.

He spun the vernier wheels and found Free-
donia. At first it was a dull, tiny mote, lost in the
field of frosty black. He increased the magnifica-
tion until it became a mighty cube of black,
cragged iron, rolling like a giant’s die on black,
diamond-dusted velvet.

He was looking for the Drakes’ laboratory when
he saw the gleam of danger. A tiny star, above
the cube of iron, flashed yellow, and red, and
green. Another winked out below. Two more.

“Eh!" His startled voice went back to Ann.
“Blinkers all around it. Three — and there's an-
other! Must be right in the middle of a seetee
swarm !”

“It is,” Ann said calmly. “You’ll see another
blinker — there are five, in all.”

“Five!” He swung away from the instrument,
straight and spare in the black of the Guard.
Their warm sense of comradeship was shattered

now and his eyes had a glint of steel. “How does
that happen?”

“Freedonia passed through a drift area,” she
said simply. “The relative velocities were small
and our peegee unit picked up seetee satellites,
You know, the eccentricity of the orbits — ”

“Five’s too many!” Anders thrust an accusing
finger at her. “And the orbits are too close. The
Drakes have somehow towed that drift into orbital
positions around Freedonia. Haven’t they?”

She stepped back, with frightened protest on
her face.

“Why, Captain Anders?” She managed a weak,
unconvincing laugh. “Why do you think we’d
do that?”

“Two reasons.” His voice was hard and brittle.
“One is to discourage intruders — no wonder
Erickson wouldn’t go back! The other is to give
old Drake and his son a convenient reservoir of
material for their seetee experiments!”

She tried to answer, bvit she couldn’t. All the
color drained out of her face. She stood gazing
at him with black, dilated eyes. She looked terri-
fied. Anders had an uncomfortable picture of
her, standing so, at the bars of a cell in the nickel-
iron heart of Pallas IV. It made him feel a little
ill.

“Please — ” he gulped uncertainly. “Ann . . .
Miss O’Banion — ”

But she didn’t speak or move. Without quite
meaning to, he reached out to pat her stiff shoul-
der. She struck savagely at his hand, and then
turned quickly away from him. Still she didn't
make any sound, but he could see that she was
sobbing.

Anders offered his handkerchief. Ann O’Banion
took it with an angry little snatch. She stopped
her silent sobbing and dried her eyes and looked
at him again, now with a solemn little smile.

“Sorry.” She gulped. “I’ve been a fool. I
thought I could guide you in and out without let-
ting you guess. But now you’ll have to take me
back to Obania.”

Anders liked her smile. Her tanned face had
no make-up for the tears to ruin, and he saw with
approval that her eyes weren't red. But they had
a cold fighting glint. She was still a determined
antagonist.

“’Fraid not.” He suppressed a brief regret
that he hadn’t been free to join the firm of Di’ake,
McGee & Drake. “We’re still going to Free-
donia. Don’t blame yourself. I was headed there
before I met you.”

“You can’t get through without a pilot.” Her
voice was low and taut. “Those blinkers aren’t
enough. You’ll be wrecked in the drift.”

“P’raps,” he told her cheerfully. “But the
Guard will send a squadron out to look for us.”

OPPOSITES— REACT f

Facing him in that silent conical room, whose
gray padded walls muffled everything except the
muted clicking of the pilot-robot, she stood un-
certain and afraid. Her pale tongue wet her full,
paintless lips. She gulped and didn’t speak.

“Don’t you worry.” He grinned at her unease.
“We’ll get through. Besides the armor, we’ve
got the peegee safety field. With that minus
field up, you couldn't hit us with a spatial gun.”

“But you can’t get through.” She was breath-
lessly intense. Her brown face made a small,
wistful smile. “Please, let’s go back."

But she saw her appeal was futile, for white
teeth bit into her quivering lip. Her fine shoul-
ders, in the trim blue sweater, made an eloquent
little shrug of defeat. The pain in her eyes made
Anders look away.

“You win, captain.” Her voice was small and
flat. “No use to let you kill yourself, because
there would only be another. Give me the wheel,
and I’ll take you safe down to Freedonia.”

“I don't need a pilot — ”

Her face stopped him with a quizzical, bitter
little smile. She went slowly to the control
wheels. With a confident skill she took the ship
off the pilot-robot and turned to the main peri-
scope.

“You see, captain,” her muffled voice came
through the black hood, “you aren’t the only one
out looking for the easy way to master seetee.
Among the others there’s a Martian-German spy
named Franz von Falkenberg. Once he held up
Mr. Drake and Rob McGee at the office on Obania.
and got away with some important plans. Of
course we can’t report things like that. We have
to try to protect ourselves.”

Her level gray eyes glanced back from the
hood.

“So you see. captain,” she went on very quietly,
“there happens to be more in the way than just
the drift. We laid a field of automatic mines —
where those seetee blinkers would keep any honest
ship from running into them. They’re equipped
with peegee units that Rick designed. Your safety
field would only draw them against the ship.”

“Eh!” Anders swallowed hard and whispered,
"Thanks!”

“Don’t thank me!” Ann O’Banion told him
savagely. “I wish I’d never seen you!”

But she brought the cruiser down a twisting
curve through the spinning drift and the flashing
beacons and the invisible black mines, to land it
safely in a shallow iron depression at the south
pole of Freedonia.

“We’ve installed a peegee unit,” her strained
low voice came through the hood. “It’s to anchor
our equipment and hold the satellites. There’s
no atmosphere. So don’t go out without your
armor.”

“Naturally.” Anders grinned. “If you’re oper-

ating seetee machinery, you have to do it in con-
traterrene air, or none at all. But thanks for your
solicitude.”

The answer was an angry little sniff.

At the auxiliary periscope he had watched
their approach to that small black world of cragged
iron. Now he saw that she had set the ship down
beside a small dock platform. Beyond it stood
a long sheet-metal building, so skillfully splotched
with black and gray camouflage that he caught
his breath to find it.

“The lab?” he asked, but she didn’t answer.

Across the hollow, hidden deep in the shadow
of the walling cliffs, he discovered a tiny cluster
of dome-shaped fabric tents, also splashed with
concealing paint. That rude little camp seemed
deserted, and he inquired:

“How many men have you here?”

“Just Rick and his father.” she told him. “Of
course we had to have a crew to set up the build-
ings and the terrene machines, but that’s all fin-
ished. Here they are!”

Two bulky suits of silver-painted dirigible
armor had soared like miniature spaceships be-
yond the long building. Keeping in the shadow
of the rock, they were hardly visible, until a
photophone flashed red. Turning to the communi-
cations board, Anders brought in Rick Drake's
voice :

"Cruiser ahoy!”

“H’lo. Drake.” Anders felt a surge of irra-
tional hostility, the reverse of gratitude. “Re-
member Captain Anders — the officer you rescued
from that runaway?”

“Oh — Anders.” Rick sounded equally hostile
and also dismayed. “What do you want?”

“Come on aboard and find out.” Anders tried
to assume Hood’s invincible heartiness. “Your
father, too. I’ll have the lock opened at once.
We’ve brought you a little surprise — you can’t
guess who!”

“Beast!” hissed Ann O’Banion.

But the two flying suits dropped toward the
little dock. Anders took up the ship’s telephone
and found Muratori now on duty in the after
control room. He ordered the lock made ready
for the Drakes, and added:

“Send them up in the elevator. I’ll receive
them here on the bridge. And have the shipment
of supplies unloaded on the dock.”

“Aye, sir,” rapped the little Martian’s metal
voice.

Ann stood bitterly silent.

The two Drakes came up the cruiser’s tiny eleva-
tor and mounted the short companion through
the bridge deck. Two weary, awkward giants,
they climbed heavily into that small gray room
and stood staring bleakly at him and Ann
O’Banion.

ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION

The elder and the younger, they looked queerly
alike. Old Jim Drake — Seetee Drake, as Anders
knew men called him — was shrunken and stooped.
He eased his left knee, painfully. His thinning
hair was roan.

But Rick Drake looked equally gaunt and
drawn, from sheer fatigue. His hair was stiff and
bronze. But they had the same blue resolution
in their tired, hollow eyes, and the same red neg-
lected stubble on their chins. They both looked
warily at him and questioningly at the tense-faced
girl.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered faintly. “We . . .
I gusss we just played a game, and Captain Anders
won.”

Rick Drake turned his cold, accusing eyes at
Anders. But the old man’s faded eyes turned
warm with sympathy. He limped to tne girl and
put his mighty arm around her as if she had been
a troubled child.

“Don’t mind, Ann,” his deep voice rumbled
softly. “I know you couldn’t help it."

“That’s so,” Anders told him. ‘T was coming,
anyhow, and there was nothing she could do. Of
course your mine field might have got the Chal-
lenge, but that wouldn’t have done you any good
for long.”

Out of a tense little pause. Rick asked flatly:

“Now what do you want?”

“Y’ see, we’ve evidence that you are engaged
in seetee research.” Anders found his voice
clipped and brittle, as if this scene were somehow
painful. “First thing. I’ll want a look at all your
shops and equipment.”

Rick’s hard voice said, “We’re breaking no
laws.”

“P’raps not.” Anders grinned back at his de-
fiant stare. “But y’ know the laws of today aren’t
going to matter very much in the battle for seetee.

OPPOSITES— REACT }

’Cause whoever wins will be writing the laws for
tomorrow.”

“You mean, if Interplanet wins!” Rick was pale
beneath the spaceburn, and his low voice had a
snap of savage restraint. “You want to push the
planets back into slavery, under your damned
empire, for another hundred years. Well, you’ll
get no help from us!”

“Aren’t you rather bitter, against a former em-
ployer?” Anders looked hopefully at old Drake
and the girl, but their set faces were equally hos-
tile. “After all, it was the Interplanet engineers
who developed paragravity, and really conquered
space. Aren’t we entitled to share the spoil?”

“Your point of view,” sneered Rick Drake. “It’s
true I used to be an engineer for Interplanet, at
ten thousand a year. But I know plenty of stock-
holders who don’t know a slip-stick from a sleeve
valve, and never risked their precious fat hides
ten kilometers over Panama City — drawing mil-
lions.”

"So do I.” Anders shrugged his straight black
shoulders. “I know Interplanet isn’t perfect.
But I'm just an engineer with a job to do. That
job is to find out how to work seetee.”

Ann O’Banion's gray eyes were cool with scorn.

“Why not build a lab of your own,” she in-
quired, “and figure it out for yourself?”

Anders gave her a slow brown grin and watched
her tanned hands ball into angry little fists. He
saw smoldering anger, too, in the patient, hollow
eyes of old Jim Drake.

“This isn’t just a parlor game,” he said. “The
other planets are trying, remember. Seems the
Martians have found a seetee artifact — a thing
made by the inhabitants of the Invader. S’pose
they get the clues they need to handle seetee?
Y’ think the Martian Reich would be a better big
neighbor than Interplanet?*’

Ann didn’t answer, but he saw quick dread
spring into her eyes. Old Drake’s great gaunt
shoulders sagged a little more, as if they had
received another weary burden. Rick, with con-
sternation on his lean, ray-burned face, demanded
sharply:

“What artifact? Where is it?”

“That’s the situation.” Ignoring Rick, Anders
tried to be persuasive. “Y’ understand why I’ve
got to get seetee. But I do have a good deal of
discretionary authority. I can promise you a
square deal, for Drake, McGee & Drake.”

“You expect us to sell out?” Ann’s face was
taut with scorn. “To Interplanet?”

“Why not?” Anders said urgently. ''We can’t
let you go ahead with this. That mine field alone
is evidence enough of your treasonable inten-
tions. But I’ll make a deal in spite of that, if
you’ve anything to sell. I’ll even promise one of

you a directorship in Interplanet if you can work
seetee.”

Ann echoed coldly, “Promise!”

“Anyhow,” rapped Rick Drake, “we can’t.”
“Better sell,” Anders soberly advised. “Or I’ll
have to take it.”

Ann’s face was white and set beneath her tan.
She had caught her breath, as if for some angry
retort. But old Jim Drake took her arm and
drew her back with an awkward, weary gentleness.

“No use, Ann.” He shook his roan, shaggy
head at Rick’s look of anxious protest. “No use,”
he repeated heavily. “Seems Captain Anders has
drawn all the aces.”

Unwillingly, the angry younger giant subsided.
“We’ve nothing to sell.” The deep, rusty voice
of the elder was tired and low, edged with bitter-
ness. “Interplanet has nothing to worry about
from us. But I guess the best way of proving
that, captain, is to show you through the shop.”
"Thanks, Drake.” Anders felt relieved. “To
show that I mean to play fair I’ll come alone. The
crew will have orders not to leave the ship for —
say four hours, if that’s time enough?”

"Two hours will be enough,” the old engineer
said wearily, “to show you that we’ve failed.”

VI.

Anders called Commander Protopopov on the
ship’s telephone. The big, hairy exile climbed up
the companionway with the heavy, clumsy shamble
of a Callistonian bear. His fiat, cunning eyes
blinked at Ann, and she drew back with a hot
fiush.

“Take over, commander,” Anders told him
curtly. “I'm going off the ship.”

Protopopov was leering at the two Drakes, with
his small, opaque, stupid-seeming eyes. He ap-
peared to believe that they were Martian-German
agents, and Freedonia a secret invasion base, for
his hollow whisper came anxiously:

“But, captain, will your life be safe—”

“If I’m not back in four hours,” Anders told
him, “you can send out an armed search party.
But keep every man aboard till then. That’s an
order.”

“Aye, sir.” His puttylike face held a moronic
stare, and he made an awkward, shambling salute.

Two by two. the tiny elevator dropped them to
the valve deck. The Drakes climbed back into
their outsize space armor. Ann had shipped a
suit with her cargo. Anders put on his own. The
air lock let them out upon the little dock.

Ann glanced at her pile of crates and drums
already unloaded there, neatly covered with a
silver-painted tarpaulin against the chill of space.
Anders couldn’t see her expression, beyond the
face plate of her bucket-shaped helmet, but the

ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION

r^d flash of her photophone brought him one curt
word :

“Thanks!”

Walking in these cumbersome suits of steel
and lead and sealing plastic was laborious and
slow. But small paragravity units, battery-driven,
could lift them into easy flight. With his left
hand Anders held the outside control stick, in
front of the chest — although the suit was also
equipped with a helmet stick, to be held with the
teeth when both hands were occupied. He swam
after old Jim Drake into the long dark building
beyond the dock.

The interior surprised him.

The lofty walls, of corrugated metal, were
painted white. Fluorescent tubes made a flood of
light. Half the immense floor was spaced with
big machines. The other half was vacant, merely
dug with a long, double row of empty pits.

Down the center ran a white-railed catwalk
with branches reaching toward each great machine.
Old Drake dropped his armored bulk upon it
and Anders came alertly down beside him. His
helmet light carried a startled question:

“Seetee?”

But he didn’t need the deep-voiced answer be-
cause in a moment he had seen the Interplanet
trade-mark on the boiler of the huge uranium
motor-generator that fed electric power to turret
lathes and milling machines and a complete battery
of automatic machine tools.

“No.” The photocells in the crown of his helmet
picked up Drake’s tired, rusty voice. “These
are all terrene. We got them just for models, and
to build the other terrene tools we thought we’d
need.”

His bulky sleeve gestured heavily toward the
empty pits.

“That was to be the seetee shop.”

They moved along the railed footway. Anders
could feel a faint vibration through his soles. He
saw a big flywheel turning ponderously. Bright
ribbons of magnesium curled endlessly from the
tools of an automatic milling machine. But there
was no sound.

The hard vacuum of space doesn’t carry sound.
Anders understood that well enough, yet this total
silence gave him an eerie sensation. Something
was strange, almost unreal, about the operation
of a huge drop hammer that fell without a crash.

It seemed uncanny, too, to watch this whole
intricate shop running so smoothly without atten-
tion. He paused to watch an automatic turret
lathe that picked rough gray beryllium castings
from an endless conveyor and swiftly turned them
to an intricate and unfamiliar shape.

“What are you manufacturing?” he inquired.

"Only patterns,” old Drake told him. “Terrene
patterns, for the seetee machines we can’t build.

All this was just planned for a model, you under-
stand. for the seetee shop. Every control is fully
electrical or automatic, from the ore chutes and
induction furnaces, all the way to the assembly
jigs.”

“I can understand the necessity of that,” Anders
agreed. “If a workman happened to touch a seetee
machine he’d just burn his finger off. But you
must have some kind of control?”

“Induction,” old Drake said. “That requires no
contact of conductors. We’ve designed push but-
tons and verniers, to act through induction relays.
And there’s the terrene half of our main trans-
former.”

He pointed at a tall, unfinished bulk near the
rows of empty pits. “Current inducted in the
seetee half was intended to power the seetee shop
from our terrene generator.”

“Beautiful!” Anders glanced admiringly back
at the twin rows of gleaming automatic machines
under the tall white walls, all running sound-
lessly and unattended. “Beautiful shop.”

But old Drake was looking ahead past the half-
completed transformer and the empty hooks hang-
ing beneath the massive beam of an overhead
traveling crane, at the double row of vacant pits.
Even the bulky armor couldn’t hide his mood of
bitter defeat.

“We tried,” he said simply. “And failed.”
“Failed?” Anders echoed, unbelievingly. “Seems
to me you’ve thought of everything. You’ve spent
millions of dollars and built all this.” He tried
again to see the old man’s face. “How could you
fail?”

Old Drake seemed to shrug in the bright armor.
“We*ve spent more than millions.” His voice
was dull and weary. “I’ve spent forty years for
this. Sometimes I’ve thought success was near.
I even used seetee power to swing Freedonia out
of a collision orbit. But still we’ve failed and
one word will tell you why.” His heavy steel
arm pointed toward the empty pits. “Bedplates.”
“Bedplates?” repeated Anders, wondering.
“Machines have to be secured in place against
thrust and vibration.” the armored giant told him
patiently. “Especially when they’re seetee. Some-
times the clearances must be very fine — in such
things as the transformer cores and induction
relays that we can’t quite build.”

“Surely there’s a way.” Anders protested. “See-
tee iron is still magnetic. I’ve seen a permalloy
magnet, floating on the repulsion of the like poles
of another. Just a toy, but the same principle — ”
“Where,” inquired Drake, “will you find any
contraterrene permalloy?”

Anders moved quickly toward him.

“But you’ve tried something,” He let his voice
ring hard. “All this is very pretty, Mr. Drake.
But now let’s see your seetee machines!”

The old man didn’t respond. Anders looked at

OPPOSITES— REACT !

him searchingly and then glanced sharply back at
Rick and Ann, who had followed along the narrow
walk. The reflection on their blank face plates
concealed all expression, but he could imagine a
suspicious hostility.

“Take him on, dad.” The sudden red flicker
brought Rick’s voice, harsh and low. “It doesn’t
matter now.”

“Then come on, Captain Anders.” the tired elder
giant rumbled patiently. “It’s only a hammer.
We set it up at the other pole — just in case of
accident.”

Rick soared away, suddenly, toward the tall
switchboard at the entrance. Then Anders noticed
the warning hum in his phones and saw that it
came from a red light glowing over one of the
machines.

“We’ll go on.”

Old Drake lifted in his armor. Anders and Ann
swam after him, over the empty pits, and out
through another doorway in the rear of the long
building. For a moment Anders could see only
blackness. Then the hard diamond stars came out
again, and the astragation lights on the cruiser’s
tall black shadow'. He followed the old engineer,
flying over the low iron cliffs with Ann beside
him.

Halfway around the little world, in another
cragged cup of night, was a rough little shed of
dark-painted metal. They went inside. Old
Drake turned on a light. Anders stared at the
contraterrene hammer.

He had expected something small and crude.
But this massive red-painted frame was three times
his height. All the parts looked well designed and
accurately machined. A guard rail surrounded the
great anvil, glowing with red fluorescent paint.
Small hanging signs warned :

SEETEE— DAN GER !

The Earthman tried not to shiver. But it made
him feel uneasy and almost ill to imagine the
results if one happened to fall against the ham-
mer. He conceived a sudden new regard for the
abilities and the courage of Drake, McGee &
Drake.

“It isn't all seetee.” The old engineer moved
calmly to the glowing rail, explaining patiently.
“Only the hammer itself and the anvil. They are
native contraterrene nickel-iron. We shaped
them out at space, with a cutting jet of terrene
nitrogen, and towed them into position with
magnets.”

Anders looked across the red-glowing rail. The
anvil was a massive rectangular block, level with
the floor. The hammer was a tall cylinder. He
tried to imagine all the planning and the risk and
the heartbreaking labor they stood for.

“The anvil weighs fifteen tons,” old Drake’s
deep, rusty voice went calmly on. “It is floated
between negative paragravity fields, repelling it
from six directions. We draw power from the
main plant.”

He pointed to a thick-armored cable.

“The hammer slides in similar repulsion fields.”
His steel arm indicated the tall black cylinder of
contraterrene iron. “It is lifted by a positive
peegee unit, at the top of the frame. That unit
is reversed to drop it.”

His blank face plate turned slowly to the Earth-
man.

“Can you build a better hammer?”

Anders didn’t think so, but he merely asked:
“How do you hold the work?”

“We don’t,” Drake told him. “We tried to
design seetee tongs with terrene handles. But
they were even less successful than the hammer.”
“What’s wrong with the hammer?”

"Do you want to see it run?”

Anders heard a quietly ominous difference in
old Drake’s rumbling tone. He remembered that
Rick had found an excuse to stay behind. A
sharp suspicion made him hesitate — for he knew
a pretended accident would be very easy here
and a human life was worthless against the prize
of tamed seetee.

“’Fraid?” Ann's low voice was mocking now.
"Then I’ll hold your hand.”

He felt her glove in his.

Curtly, he called at old Drake. "Go ahead!”

Awkward in his armor, the old engineer moved
behind a massive parapet of lead and iron to a
simple switchboard. Anders wanted to move back
but the girl stood bold and angry against the
glowing rail.

The tall iron cylinder lifted. It came down with
a silent smash on the massive anvil block. It
lifted again and the girl was calmly pointing.
Anders saw, with a dull terror, that the cylinder
had begun to wabble, as if loosely held in its
guides. The anvil rocked and tossed like a cork
on uneasy water. The hammer came down again
and the anvil tipped to meet it.

Anders knew what was going to happen. Des-
perately he seized the neck strap on Ann’s armor
and flung her backward toward the doorway. Be-
hind them was a blinding flash.

The girl pulled herself free with an angry
shrug. When he turned to look, old Drake had
stopped the hammer. Metal was glowing where
the tall cylinder had rocked against the terrene
frame. Hammer and anvil quivered in the fields of
repulsion that floated them and slowly came to
rest.

“Sorry, Captain Anders,” old Drake rumbled
calmly from behind the parapet. “It usually will
stand half a dozen strokes. But we can’t damp

ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION

out the oscillation and vibration — not enough for
a safe bedplate.”

That savage explosion of gamma rays and neu-
trons had. evidently, been nothing unusual to old
Drake and the girl. Perhaps the lead-lined armor
made them safe enough. But Anders moved
watchfully back from the guard rail. Even at
rest the hammer was somehow awesome. Seetee
machinists, he thought — if such a calling ever
came to exist — should command high pay.

“Well, captain?” In a soft, scornful voice. Ann
repeated old Drake’s question. “Can you build
a better hammer?”

Thinking of all the money and the painstaking
skill that had gone into this machine, the years
of patient planning and the months of daring
labor — with danger and death waiting for one
chance slip of a tool — Anders was staring in ad-
miration at old Jim Drake.

He wondered if seetee would ever be conquered.
He couldn't imagine any more thorough and skill-
ful and audacious attack than this had been. Sud-
denly the job Commissioner Hood had given him
appeared quite hopeless.

“No.” he said. “I couldn’t.”

“So you see we’ve failed.” The old engineer
turned out the light over the machine and came
slowly back toward the doorway. Even in the
motion of his glowing helmet light, Anders could
see his weary limp, and the crushing weight of
years and failure. “That’s all you want to know?”

“Not quite.” Anders said. “There’s one more
item." He tried to peer through their blank face
plates. “Where is Rob McGee? What's he after,
with the Jane? Maybe a seetee artifact, from the
Invader?”

Ann seemed to stiffen in her armor.

“You won’t find out from us!”

VII,

“Now we’re going back aboard the Challenge,”
Anders told them in a crisp, official voice. “Please
call Rick. Have him shut down his machines if
he doesn’t want to leave them running. Because
we still have to reach some understanding.”

As they soared back around the night side of
that small iron world, three small ships flying
through open space, he was trying to decide what
to do with the Drakes and their laboratory.

The problem appeared both difficult and dan-
gerous. Such competent engineers might yet in-
vent a satisfactory seetee bedplate, at any time.
Once they had a working seetee shop, he knew.
Freedonia could be transformed into a citadel
strong enough to hold off the whole armada of the
Guard.

Ann O’Banion followed him, flying beside old
Drake. Her helmet light was dead. Her armor
was only a tiny silver atom, lost amid the dimen-

sionless diamond points of far-off suns. But
Anders was annoyed to discover how much her
mere presence disturbed his logical processes.

He still felt shaken from that blinding explo-
sion when the hammer touched its frame. Little
fool, she might have been killed. Of course the
armor was protection against any moderate in-
tensity of gamma rays. But suppose old Drake
hadn’t stopped the oscillation? The blowup of the
whole machine would have wiped them both off
the rock.

That realization made him feel cold and ill
and he wondered why. True, Ann O’Banion had
surprised him. He had expected to And a slat-
ternly brat, but she had the pride and poise of
an Interplanet heiress.

She was only a stiff robot now, flying behind
him in the bright armor, but for a moment he
yielded to warm impressions of her. The young
grace of her, lithe and vital, becoming to the
slacks and blue sweater. Her brown, capable
hands, skillful on the wheel of her little car. The
perfume of her dark hair when he stood beside
her as she expertly brought the Challenge down
to Freedonia.

He thought he hadn’t heard her really laugh.
Even when she had smiled there was always a
barrier of hostility between them. He tried to
picture her gray eyes warm with comradeship —
and then he caught himself.

He couldn’t fall for an asterite girl. That was
fantastic. Maybe she was attractive. But still
she was as different from him, in birth and culture
and experience, as a girl could easily be.

Opposites attract.

That ancient law came to mind and he dismissed
it almost angrily. It might be true of magnetic
poles and electrical fields, but he thought it
couldn’t apply to human beings. Not really.
Human opposites merely clashed.

No, he informed himself sternly, any sympathy
for Ann O'Banion was dangerous folly. He was
an Interplanet engineer, and the path of his duty
was plain. She must have her full measure of
justice, but nothing more. If it came to that
final hard decision she must go to prison with the
rest.

They came down to the little dock beside the
cruiser’s tall shadow. Ann brought Rick Drake
from the camouflaged building. They left their
armor inside the valves and the little elevator
lifted them back to the astragation deck. Anders
climbed ahead into the bridge. Commander Proto-
popov met him with a leer of moronic cunning.

“You are too bold, captain.” He lowered his
hoarse whisper with a crafty glance at the com-
panion. “I was afraid they might trap you. ’ But
I see you’ve turned the tables again.” He touched
the spatial automatic at his belt. “Shall we take
them now?”

OPPOSITES— REACT !

“Wait, commander!” Anders caught his huge,
awkward arm. “You see, the whole situation has
taken a very delicate turn. These people must be
handled with the utmost care. I am going to have
another talk with them, alone.”

“Ah, so they have confederates!” The exile’s
broad putty face turned bright with that deduc-
tion. “And you wish to set a trap for the entire
ring. Very clever, captain! If they try to make
any trouble I’ll be waiting down on the astraga-
tion deck.”

With the shamble of a walking bear, Protopopov
descended the companion. The three asterites
came up. Rick and his father seemed more alike
than ever : red-stubbled giants, stooped and weary,
yet with blue determination burning in their eyes.

Anders looked at Ann O'Banion. She was pale
and taut. The dark, unruly wisp of hair, curling
across her brown forehead under the edge^of her
red space cap made her look more than ever like
a frightened child. He tried to smile at her, but
her gray eyes checked him with their level hos-
tility.

“Well ?” Rick said flatly. "What now?”

Anders looked away from the tall, defiant girl.
He saw Rick’s smoldering anger ,-iiu the patient
disapproval of old Jim Drake. He tried to meet
that barrier of cold antagonism with a hard brown
smile.

“That’s up to you,” he told them. “Obviously,
we can’t just leave you to go on with this. You
might design a new bedplate, any day. That
hammer might even work a good deal better if I
wasn’t looking on.”

He looked back at Ann's set brown face and the -
smile left him.

“On the other hand,” he said soberly, “I don’t
want to take you all to Pallas IV. Perhaps there’s
no clear evidence that you were planning treason.

I still hope we can find a plan of co-operation.”

He looked at old Jim Drake.

“Maybe I can leave a guard here,” he suggested
hopefully, “and let you carry on. If you design
a satisfactory bedplate, Interplanet will buy you
out. I can promise generous terms — you might
very well let Karen Hood arrange them for you.”
He smiled a little, wryly. “Besides,” he added,
“you’ll have to tell me what Rob McGee is up to.”

Rick’s stubbled jaw set a little harder at the
sound of Karen’s name, but none of them an-
swered. The voice of Anders turned clipped and
curt, hiding his discomfort.

“The alternative is prison.”

Old Jim Drake looked suddenly older. His
mighty shoulders sagged. His space-battered
face turned bleak and hollow. His gaunt frame
swayed a little, and Anders saw that he had to
favor his bad left knee. His eyes were dark
with long frustration.

Rick caught his breath with a tortured little
sob. He rocked forward on his feet and his
bronzed fists knotted. Gravely, .Anders shook his
head and touched the powerful little spatial auto-
matic he wore at his hip.

“Better not,” he advised.

“Bully!” The tall girl moved toward him sud-
denly. Her taut face was pale and he noticed
that the freckles on her attractive nose were oddly
distinct. “But you’ve forgotten something, cap-
tain.” Her voice was cool and scornful. “You
don’t hold all the cards.”

“Eh?” Anders liked the fighting courage in
her gray, level eyes. He wished again, with a
bleak sense of loss, that chance had not set them
at such poles apart. “What have I forgotten?”

“The mine field.” She smiled a little, trium-
phant and scornful. “You can’t get through it
without one of us for a pilot. And I don’t think
you’ll want to call your base for a sweeper. Be-
cause that would tip your game to the Martians.”

Her voice was a cool challenge;

“How about it, captain?”

“That’s an ace. Miss O’Banion.” He smiled
again, as if in polite pleasure at her victory, and
made her an ironic little bow. “But how are you
going to play it?”

Rick Drake first looked relieved, and then stared
at him suspiciously. Old Drake’s patient ray-
burned face didn’t change. The tall girl stepped
a little toward him with an urgent, half-pleading,
oddly childlike expression.

“Just leave us alone. Please, that’s all we want.
I'll pilot you back through the mines if you will
give me your word to go on and forget us. If
you’re afraid von Falkcnberg will beat you to
seetee, maybe you had better look for him.”

They were all waiting, breathless. Anders
looked into Ann’s eager face. The color had
come back under her tan. Her full lips were
parted. Her gray eyes were very bright. Now
he knew that she was beautiful.

No, Ann O’Banion was too fine and proud and
brave for prison. And the Drakes, with all their
long effort and patient daring — surely they had
earned something better than a cell in the cold
iron heart of Pallas IV. Suddenly he was afraid
he had to yield.

But he couldn’t yield.

Because, somehow, old Drake’s stern, battered
face turned into the thinner, gray-eyed face of his
own father. His father's precise quiet voice came
back across the years, all the way from their trips
to space in his childhood, reminding him:

“Son. you’re going to be an Interplanet engi-
neer. That means you will have to study very
hard, to master many fields of science. It means
you will have to risk your life many times, be-
cause high space just wasn’t meant for men. But
there’s only one thing, really, that you must always

ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION

remember. Don’t forget it, son — Interplanet men
just don’t give up.”

Now, remembering, Anders looked squarely into
Ann's breathless face.

“Sorry.” Her look of crushed disappointment
set a throb of pain in his throat. He wanted des-
perately to make her understand, but he knew she
never would. “Sorry,” he repeated, “but I can’t.”
Her face was white and bleak again.

■‘You'll die without a pilot.”

“We’ve got a spaceman’s chance.” He made a
stern little grin. “Now, you see, we know about
the mines. I'm going to try to run them with the
ship’s field dead. That way. we won’t trip the
peegee units in the mines. More danger from see-
tee, but we’ll have a spaceman’s chance.”
Watching the eager spirit flow out of her, he
felt a pang of pity. Hopefully, he added:
“Unless you want to accept my terms.”

She merely shook her head.

Then Anders realized that the photophone was
buzzing with a call signal. He turned away from
their defiant, disappointed faces to the communi-
cations board. He put on the headset. The sig-
nal was very weak, difficult to tune. At last,
however, he caught it in the field of the pick-up
telescope and brought up the volume.

The call wave ceased. For a moment there was
only the hissing roar of stellar interference. Then
the voice came in. Anders listened and slowly
grinned. He turned back to Ann’s bleak, deter-
mined face.

“A call for you. Miss O'Banion.”

She shrank from the extension receiver he
offered as if it had been a dangerous thing. He
saw Rick’s stunned dismay. Old Drake looked
older than ever, broken.

“Yes, it’s McGee. I can recognize his voice.
He knew his narrow beam wasn’t likely to be
picked up from that direction, except on Free-
donia. S’pose he wasn’t expecting you to have
visitors here.”

Anders grinned at their consternation.
“Needn’t be afraid you’ll give anything away,”
he added. “Y’ see, I already know just about
where he is. The readings on the pick-up tele-
scope give his direction, and the signal strength
is a fair index to distance. Must be five hundred
million kilometers south of the ecliptic plane —
maybe you know what he’s up to, off out there?”
He thrust the extension receiver at Ann again.
“Better answer,” he told her. “He seems in a
hurry. And he’s so far away your voice will take
a long time to reach him.”

With a wrathful glance at him, but visibly
frightened, too, the girl took the receiver. Stand-
ing with the headset on, he grinned back at her
and then began making delicate adjustments to
align and focus the ship’s transmitter.

For even the racing ray of modulated light must
take something like half an hour to reach that
remote point from which Rob McGee was sending
— hundreds of millions of kilometers off all the
shipping lanes, and even far beyond the limits of
the drift survey. The transmitter beam had to be
focused to a thin line of light to span such a
distance. It must be aimed exactly, not to miss
McGee's receiver. But suddenly he lifted his
hand.

“Listen!”

For the high-pitched hum of the call wave had
ceased again. Above the stormy roar of starlight
they heard the gentle, drawling voice of Rob
McGee. It rose and fell on the waves of rushing
interference, thinned and distorted. Now and
then a word was lost.

. . wait any longer . . . chance you heard
the call wave, and nobody else. Good trip out,
though our old friend Anders nearly caught me,
back at Pallasport. Miss Karen helped me get
away. But I think he’s on to something . . .
new engine’s perfect . . . been here twenty
hours.”

Silently, the Drakes came up to Ann and bent
their haggard, e*d-stubbled heads to listen at her
receiver. Ancl<h% had to keep adjusting telescope
and amplifier. For it taxed both the receiver and
their ears to catch that thin thread of human
communication, tossed for nearly half an hour on
the storm of interstellar light.

. . object’s all we hoped, but I had better
not describe it. Anyhow, that would take a book.
But you’ll all be glad to know I’ve found the thing
we needed most. Yes, a bedplate!”

Anders saw the slow smile on the tired, patient
face of old Jim Drake. He saw bright tears well
into the giant’s hollow eyes. For a moment the
voice of Rob McGee was drowned in the seas of
thundering light and then he found it again.

. . to risk any specifications. But I’ve cut
loose a model for you to take apart. It’s rigid
as solid metal. And permanent, so it draws no
power. It’s still as good as new after a hundred
thousand years — ”

Again they lost his voice in the roaring of the
stars.

“. . . delay!” It came again, and now Anders
could hear the tension of an unfamiliar urgency
in the quiet soft voice of Rob McGee. “But a
warship followed me here. It’s Martian design,
and it hailed me in German . . . salvo, when I
didn't surrender.”

His voice was swept away again on the hurri-
cane of starlight. They waited, listening breath-
lessly.

. . damage, but I’m trapped here. If I
don’t come back you had better give somebody a
tip on Franz von Falkenberg. But I still have

OPPOSITES— REACT !

got a spaceman’s chance. When my time runs
out — ”

Again the tense drawl faded and it didn’t come
back. Anders twisted anxiously at the dials. But
all he could find was the mighty, untiring tempest
of the stars.

VIII.

At last the Earthman stopped the crashing hiss
of stellar interference and turned quickly back
from the communications board. His black shoul-
ders were straight again, ready for emergency.

“Do I get this right?” His hard steel eyes
looked at Ann O’Banion, alert and almost smiling.
"McGee has found some seetee machine, built by
the Invaders? And there’s a bedplate design that
he thinks you can use?”

Ann stood white, frozen.

He looked at the Drakes, haggard, red-bearded
giants. Their blue eyes were frosty, and they

didn't speak. Their breathless anxiety, however,
was almost answer enough. And Ann, when he
looked back at her, unwillingly nodded.

“So now Franz von Falkenberg ha.s got McGee
trapped, somewhere about that machine?” His
Earthman’s voice had a clipped, metallic ring.
"And I s’pose that bedplate would be as useful
to the Martians as to you?”

Old Drake nodded bleakly.

“That’s true.” His deep, patient voice seemed
tired, too tired for bitterness. “The bedplate
is the only actual difficulty. Once you had it you’d
have a bridge to seetee. Given the blueprints
for a rigid, permanent bedplate, any competent
engineer can do the rest. If von Falkenberg g;,5ts
away with that model the Martians can be bom-
barding Panama City with seetee shells within six
months.”

“Then he won't get away." The brown face of
Anders was stem with a lean, eager smile. “I’ve

ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION

got a fighting ship, and I can be out there in less
than five days. I'm going out to stop him.”

He turned to Ann with a reckless grin.

“Now, gorgeous, y’ want to pilot me back
through your mines? I’ll take the time to land
you on Obania. But that’s up to you. I can cut
the safety field and take my chance on running
through.”

For a moment Ann stood taut and still. Then
her smooth tanned throat pulsed as she swallowed
uneasily. She looked at the Drakes. Rick’s stub-
bled face was sternly disapproving. The haggard
old man gave her no sign. But she turned back'
and caught her breath to whisper:

“I’ll go with you.”

“Wait, Ann!” Rick protested swiftly. “Make
him promise something."

“No, she’s right.” The patient elder giant took
Rick's arm. “Franz von Falkenberg has got to
be stopped — no matter the cost to us.”

“Thanks, Drake.” Anders’ voice was brisk.
“For that, I’ll leave you here to watch your shop.
If I get that bedplate for Interplanet p'raps we
can make a deal — for we’ll be needing seetee engi-
neers. Now you better get off. Give you five
minutes.”

He called Commander Protopopov and rapped
swift orders.

Ann shook Rick’s hand. They murmured some-
thing, and then the bronze-haired younger giant
looked back at Anders with a sudden baffling
and somewhat disquieting grin. Old Drake put
his arm around the girl as if she were a beloved
child and then limped after Rick. But his deep,
rusty voice called back cheerfully:

“Good hunting, captain!”

Protopopov, in the after control room, informed
him when ^hey were off the ship. Silently, he
nodded at Ann. Grave, still a little pale, she thrust
her dark head into the periscope hood. The
Challenge lifted to the touch of her sure brown
hands, away from the dock and up again through
the wheeling drift and the blinkers and the field
of unseen mines. She turned at last to Anders
with a quiet report;

“We’re free.”

“Thank you, Miss O’Banion." Anders smiled-
“FlI set up the course for Obania.”

“Please, captain.” She gave him a shy. deter-
mined little smile. “But I’m not going back. You
see, we're already accelerating toward McGee's
object. I’m going out there with you.”

“Eh!” His face was stern. “You can’t do that.
Take only four hours to land you. Owe you that
much for service rendered. Give me the con-
trols.”

But she didn’t give up the wheel.

“Four hours might be very important to Rob

McGee,” she told him gravely. “Four hours might
let von Falkenberg get back to the seetee lab the
Martians have built on Phoso III with that bed-
plate,” Again she made that odd, slight smile.
“Besides, I want to come."

Anders merely looked at her for a long quiet
moment.

“You’ve surprised me, Miss O'Banion.” he told
her softly. “I don’t know quite what T expected
an asterite girl to be. But you . . . you’re fine.
I'm sorry that we have to be enemies. Aixd I can
appreciate your loyalty to your own world —
even if it is a very different world than mine.
Really, Ann, I mean — ”

Her tanned face looked startled. Something in
her gray level eyes made him suddenly as awk-
ward as young Rick Drake. He paused and
grinned at himself and went on in a different
voice :

“Awf’ly grateful, beautiful, for everything
you’ve done. Now I certainly don’t intend to take
you into a dangerous operation. ’Noth'.;r thing, the
presence of unattached female passengers on a
ship of war in action isn’t exactly approved of,
y’ know.”

For a moment she looked flustered, then;

“You’ll just have to manage, captain.” she told
him cheerfully. “I’m sorry if my presence is going
to get you into trouble, but you might have
thought of that sooner. Anyhow, you have to
take me.”

“Eh?” Her cool gray eyes made him flush, and
his grin turned sheepish. “Why?”

“You see, I think you’re a much nicer man than
Franz von Falkenberg,” she told him demurely.
“Even if you do work for Interplanet. I want
you to take that bedplate away from him I have
some information that you need and you may
have it if you'll let me go along.”

“What information?" he demanded.

She smiled at his curt eagerness, triumphantly.

“You can only guess the distance to McGee's
object from the photophone.” she said. “You
don't know when to begin decelerating. And, if
it happened to be in rapid motion, you might miss
it altogether. Right, captain?”

He nodded, intently.

“Well, I know the exact position.” Her face
had a childish glow of victory. “The orbit, too.
I know how Cap'n Rob found it and what he
thought it was. Now may I go?”

“Let’s have that position and the orbit.” He
grinned at her with an ironic little bow. “And
we’ll head straight for McGee’s object at full
acceleration. B’Heve you’d be a match for von
Falkenberg himself, beautiful.”

She recited the observed position in terms of
right ascension, declination and solar distance,
waited for Anders to set it up on the keyboard

OPPOSITES— RSACTI

of the pilot-robot, and then glibly added the six
elements of the object’s orbit.

The Earthman blinked and had her repeat the
figures, reflecting that here was something else
that Karen couldn’t do. He punched more keys.
The mechanism whirred briefly computing a
course. He locked the ship upon it and turned
back to Ann.

"I’ll have a cabin cleared out for you.”

“I hope I won’t be too much trouble,” she pro-
tested anxiously.

"None at all.” He grinned. "I’ll just move
into Protopopov’s, and he’ll take Muratori’s, and
Muratori will take Omura’s — and I s’pose the
third engineer will have to swing a hammock some-
where.”

“Oh,” she said, "I’m sorry.”

“But you would come along,” he said cheerfully.
"Now, about this object?”

Pushing a stool toward her, Anders sat down on
the narrow astragation desk. He lit one of his
long cigarettes with a jeweled lighter and Ann
refused one. She perched on the stool, looked
at him and hesitated.

"You know about Rob McGee?” She began
with that low-voiced question. "I mean, his
mathematical gift? The way he can tell the dis-
tance and the mass of a meteor, and all the ele-
ments of its orbit, just with a glance?”

Anders nodded. “And always knows the time
without a watch. Once I read an article about
him, written by a German psychologist who
thought he was a human mutation created to fit
the environment of space.”

"That article hurt Cap'n Rob,” she said gravely.
"It made him feel a sort of outsider. He’s very
sensitive about his gift, but it’s really wonderful.
He used the gift to discover that object.”

“But how?”

"You see,” she told him eagerly, “it was once
when we were all flying from Obania out to Free-
donia, aboard the Jane. And Rick had brought
this book that some Martian-German professor
had written about the Invader and the origin of
the drift — trying to fix the date of the Cataclysm
by tracing all the orbits of the asteroids and the
drift back to the common point where the Invader
collided with the fifth planet.”

“I know the book.” Anders grinned. “The
author is our friend von Falkenberg.”

“Then Cap’n Rob thinks he isn’t really very
clever.”

Anders smiled at her sober tone. He liked
her, perched in a childish posture on the tall stool,
as if unaware that she was beautiful. Her solemn
childish confidence made Franz von Falkenberg
seem very far away and altogether harmless. She
smiled back, shy and friendly and absorbed.
“Anyhow,” she went on eagerly, "Rick happened

to mention the book to Cap’n Rob, and the date
— that was sometime millions of years ago, accord-
ing to the professor. Cap’n Rob took his pipe
out of his mouth and said the professor was mis-
taken. Cap’n Rob said he must have failed to
take account of all the secondary collisions, be-
tween the fragments from the first. Because the
actual date of the Cataclysm, he said, was only
eighty-seven thousand four hundred sixty-three
years ago.

"Rick couldn’t quite believe that — he hasn’t
known Cap’n Rob as long as I have. He wanted
to see the figures on paper. But Cap’n Rob hasn’t
much patience with paper or machine calcula-
tions. He says they’re all approximations^always
a little bit wrong. Anyhow, he just knows things.
He told Rick that all the forces and reactions
involved were too complicated to be put down on
paper. And then I think Rick made some thought-
less crack that hurt him.

“Cap’n Rob didn’t say very much. He never
does. But I could see that he was hurt and brood-
ing. All that night, on the way to Freedonia,
he kept searching the whole sky with the peri-
scope. Next morning, just before we landed, he
lit his pipe again and offered to show Rick he
was right.

"Rick wanted to know how. Cap’n Rob said
that there was one fragment from the collision
that had been thrown into such an unusual orbit
that it couldn’t have been affected by any per-
turbations or secondary collisions. He said he’d
never seen it. It was too small and too far away
to show in the Jane’s periscope. But he offered
to write down the mass and position of it and let
Rick check with a telescope.

"Rick just laughed, but I made Cap’n Rob
write down the figures. The object was com-
paratively small, only about eighty million tons.
But it had been thrown off during that collision
with a velocity Rick couldn’t believe.

“And the orbit was very queer. Extremely
elongated, and inclined almost at right angles
to the plane of the ecliptic. The body was just
about to complete its first revolution, Cap’n Rob
said. It was a comet with a period of more than
eighty-seven thousand years — just now coming
back to the collision point.

“Rick still thought Cap’n Rob was just trying
to pull his leg. He said that any such mathe-
matical analysis would take a hundred years, even
for a big observatory with a battery of calculating
machines. And then it wouldn’t be accurate
enough to predict the position of such a small
body.

“But Cap’n Rob never jokes. I knew that he
was serious and I saw his feelings were hurt. I
made Rick promise to go out to the observatory
on Pallas I and look for the object through one

ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION

of the big telescopes there. He and Karen knew
some of the young astronomers, so they could
manage it.

“And they did, next time Rick and Cap’n Rob
were back at Pallasport. I don’t know what they
told the astronomers. But they set the big tele-
scope on the position Cap’n Rob had written down
and there the thing was!”

“Eh!” Anders smashed out his cigarette and
slid off the desk. For a moment, looking into
Ann’s wide, guileless eyes, he suspected that she
was concocting a monstrous invention for his con-
fusion.

“I’m not lying, captain.” She gave him a staid
little snule. “You picked up Cap’n Rob’s call just
now, remember, from that same position.”

“Sorry. Go on.”

Grave and eager as a child, he thought, she
resumed:

“Even in the big telescope, the thing was just
a dot. But still there it was — hundreds of mil-
lions of kilometers out of the ecliptic, and coming
back to cross it just where Bode’s law would put
the orbit of the lost fifth planet.

“Rick was pretty much impressed. He went
back to the Jane and apologized to Cap’n Rob.
Rick’s a splendid fellow, really,” she added
soberly, “even if he is pretty much wrapped up
in Karen Hood.”

Ann’s gray eyes were wide and innocent. Some-
thing in her voice, nevertheless, told Anders that
she knew he had been in love with the red-haired
Interplanet heiress, himself. Without knowing
exactly why, the Earthman flushed uncomfort-
ably.

“On the way back to Freedonia,” Ann went on
demurely, “Rick did some calculating of his own.
He told Cap’n Rob that the natural forces of the
collision couldn’t have given the object such a
high velocity without it shattering or fusing.
Besides, the angle seemed an impossible resultant.

“Rick said it had to be a ship!”

Anders nodded silently. Carefully he lit an-
other cigarette. He had to be careful to keep
his brown fingers from trembling. He didn’t want
the girl to see his excitement — or to guess that he
was thinking of von Falkenberg’s film, of that
broken golden needle and the winding spiral
ramp within it, too narrow for the feet of men.

“The thing was just a dot in the telescope,”
Ann continued gravely. “But Rick thought the
edges of it were smooth and asteroids are always
jagged. He didn’t know quite what to think.
He was afraid to believe his own calculations.

“But Cap’n Rob didn’t seem surprised. He said
he already knew there must have been seetee peo-
ple on the Invader, because he had seen bits of
things they had made. Perhaps some of them had

left in a ship, he said, just before the collision,
trying to escape. And the ship — if anything so
big could really be a ship — ^must have used a repul-
sion drive that reacted against the colliding
planets.

“Cap'n Rob decided to investigate it. But Rick
and his father were just finishing the seetee ham-
mer — they still thought it was going to work —
and they couldn't leave it. Rick said there wasn't
much you could do with a seetee ship, anyhow,
till you learned how to handle seetee.

“Of course, I nearly died to go.” Ann smiled
from her perch on the stool. “But I had to stay
to buy supplies and pilot Erickson through our
mine field — we didn’t know you were coming.

“Mr. Drake wanted Cap’n Rob to wait. But
he has a stubborn streak and he was determined to
go on alone. The cranky old engine wasn’t
dependable enough for such a long voyage, so he
had a new one installed. Seems you nearly caught
him, back at Pallasport,” Her gray eyes were
quizzical. “And I guess you know the rest, cap-
tain.”

“So McGee found a seetee bedplate oh that
ship!” Anders gave up trying to conceal his ex-
citement. “To carry terrene machines on a seetee
foundation, I s'pose? That means that those seetee
people . . . things, whatever they were . . . knew
how to work terrene matter!”

“Probably.” Ann made a tired little yawn and
seemed suddenly in danger of falling off the tall
stool. “But that’s all I know about it. Now I’m
sorry if I’m really going to cause all that bother,
captain, but I’m awfully sleepy.”

“Sorry to keep you up so late.” For midnight.
Mandate time, had come before they landed on
Freedonia. Anders realized that now it was al-
most time for breakfast. “Sweet dreams, beau-
tiful.”

He gave her the key to his vacated cabin and
telephoned the astragation officer, on the deck
below, to show her down to it. With a shy. heavy-
eyed little smile of thanks she slipped gracefully
down the companion.

But Anders felt wide awake.

For a long time he stood alone beside the muted
click and pur of the pilot-robot, thinking over all
that had happened since he walked into Commis-
sioner Hood’s metal-walled office at Pallasport.
intending to retire from the High Space Guard.

He hadn’t expected this adventure — to be driv-
ing a warship half a billion kilometers out of the
ecliptic, to fight a Martian spy for the priceless
wreck of a contraterrene ship derelict for nine
hundred centuries!

But he was a practical spatial engineer, used to
taking emergencies in stride. This was just an-
other job. He had to beat the asterites and the
Martians, and get that seetee bedplate for Inter-
planet. That was really all that mattered.

OPPOSITES— REACT !

Anders felt that he ought to be elated over the
prospect of such important and unusual duty,
and he couldn’t quite define his own vague, uneasy
discontent. Annoyed at his own want of spirit, he
tried to plan the task ahead.

His most formidable opponent was sure to be
von Falkenberg, armed with the advantage of five
days’ lead. But the Martian, not expecting him,
might be still about the wreck. The Challenge,

Anders felt grimly certain, could outrun and out-
shoot anything in space.

Then he fell to wondering about the derelict
itself. Eighty million tons seemed very big for
just a ship. Thinking of the golden needle on
von Falkenberg’s film, he tried to imagine what
sort of beings could have moved on that narrow
winding footway, with its handrail too high for
men to reach —

TO BE CONCLUDED.

THE AIVALYTICAL LABORATORY

The condensed version herewith is necessitated
by the lack of free room in the magazine, and two
months’ labs to be published at once. As you may
remember, there was none last month due to the
fact that too few letters had reached the office by
press date. Herewith, first, the lab on the
October issue:

Place Story

Author Poinrs

]. QRM — Interplanetary

George O. Smith

2.34

2. Anachron, Inc.

Malcolm Jameson

2.78

3. Lunar Landing

Lester del Rey

3.25

4- TheWabbler

Murray Leinster

3.50

5. The Second Solution

A. E. van Vogt

3.75

The high, closely bunched point-scores indicate
there was lots of argument. That a brand-new
author like George O. Smith walked off with first
honors suggests we want him again.

The lab for November went thusly:

Place Story

Author

Points

I. Minus Sign

Will Stewart

2.25

2. Not Only Dead Men

A. E. van Vogt

2.62

3. Overthrow

Cleve Cartmill

2.8

4. Four Little Ships

Murray Leinster

3.15

5. The Gentle Pirates

John Berryman

4.55

In order to have that

many stories with

point-

scores under and very near 3.00, a lot of tied votes
were needed. I. e., the first and second place Is
^nd 2s had to be used more than once per voter.
Thus the bunching of stories at the low point-
scores.

And finally, the Probability Zero voting on
the November issue gives Hal Clement’s “Avenue
of Escape” first prize of twenty dollars for the
best lie of the month, with ten dollars going to
Harry Warner for his “Sleep That Slaughtered”
and five dollars to Malcolm Jameson for “Eureka”
— the point of which a number of letter-writers
seemed to have missed completely. Remember?
The universal solvent brought in a glass vessel?
From a number of remarks made, it would appear
Jamie did such a smooth job of passing over that
little question many readers missed the zero
probability point of the story.

The Editor.

“/n Times To Come” was crowded out this month— ^
but A. E. Van Vogt’s new novel, "The Weapon Mak~
ers,” leads off next month. The Editor,

BACKFIRE

By Boss Bocklyiine

• He wanted immnrtalit)'; the Board felt lie didn't merit it. He had an answer
to that, ,4s a deniieud he introduced rabble roiisinit in a time that didn't know
it But the Board had an answer to that — they gaye him immortality and —

tlluttratad by Kramar

Bruce paused on his way through the gate onto
the runway that led to the towering spaceship. He
had heard his name called. He turned, and Jan
Tomaz, training under Bruce as an Administrator
of PhysicO'Stasis Application Bureau, pushed his
way through the moving crowd toward him.
“You’ll have to call off your trip, Bruce.”
Bruce smiled. “By whose authority. Jan?”

“By the authority of the people.”

“I don’t follow you.”

“By the authority,” said the other patiently, “of
one Thomas Q. Greeley. You’re the only one in
full possession of the facts of the case. He knows
the law. He knows he can demand a hearing any
time he wants it. He's over eighteen and he says
that he’s eligible for immediate decision. He
wants his immortality. He says he's been here
six weeks, under observation like a guinea pig. He’s
been wearing the hypnobioscope every night and
he’s learned the language. He says he's going to
have a hearing or else. What the ‘or else’ means
I don't know. Does that sound like a threat to
you?”

Jan said it simply, without alarm. In all the
twenty-one year.s of his life, he had never had
cause for alarm. Nor had Bruce. Both, although
Bruce had been born five hundred thirteen years
ago, were cut to a pattern, black of hair and brow,
straight-nosed; beneath smooth skin glowed the
subtle radiance of immortality. They were dressed
loosely, in heavy, patterned silks. This was the
year 3555 A. D. and Kearney Field was but one of
many spaceports outside New York State City.

Bruce considered the information. He answered
finally, “A bluff. Jan. Look the word up in the
World Encyclopedia of the twenty centuries. Its
ingredients are a loud voice and an aggressive man-
ner designed to intimidate another person into an
action which does not conform with his desires
or beliefs.” He fell silent, then shrugged his
shoulders and turned. Shortly he was ensconced
beside Jan in Jan’s Bullet-nose, and the ship was

lifting soundlessly over the city. He thoughtfully
watched the low. dimly lighted skyline, the shim-
mer of ocean.

He said at length. “Greeley knows the law. He
has a quick mind. In his own era. he made his
living with his wits, in various guises. He started
off as a sideshow barker, and a shyster lawyer was
impressed 'with his voice and his manner and his
unusual show of language, and tutored him in the
fine art of shystering. A politician in turn heard
him in a courtroom, and Greeley took another step
upward. Somewhere along the line he was a labor
organizer.”

“His mind must be very complex,” said Jan.

“Not unusually so for his era — which may be,”
Bruce said thoughtfully, “not so good for us. I
wish we could send him back to the twentieth cen -
tury where he came from.”

Jan reached forward and touched certain con-
trols. The ship slanted, hovered, and landed on
the roof of the Justice Building. They got out
and by elevator descended to Greeley's quarters.

A big man with tousled hair was sitting on the
edge of a couch when they came into the room.
He had a finely patterned robe wrapped around his
body. Items of his clothing littered the floor. A
cigar stuck at an acute angle from the corner of
his lips, which were sensuously thick. Smoke was
drifting away in layers to be swallowed by the
ventilator. When he saw the two men, he put
two heavily ringed, beefy hands on the edge of
the couch and shoved himself energetically erect,
and came forward with long, pounding strides.

His eyes flickered over Bruce. “You’re the guy
that’s been studying me, eh? Here. Have a cigar.
Sit down,” he said when Bruce shook his head.
He threw items of clothing off the chair. “Sit
down. Damn! Is it true that tobacco’s gone out?
What will I do now? My record’s a cigar every
two hours.” He grinned suddenly, as suddenly
stopped grinning. A mocking expression changed

his face subtly. "Sorry I interrupted your joy
jaunt. Sit do\TO.’^

Bruce and Jan sat down without saying any-
ihing, and Greeley paced back and forth, exuding
smoke, turning his head with quick, birdlike
glances, keeping his shrewd, small eyes on Bruce,
Bruce crossed his legs, and let his personality
dwindle away to a shadow as Greeley, alive with
an inductive animal magnetism which showed in
every gesture, every tone, every subtle change of
expression, went on talking.

“Fm sorry', see?" said Greeley, jutting his head
at Bruce impatiently. He flicked ashes in a cal-
cium cloud. "I know you guys got to have your
fun same as anybody else. But not at my expense,
I can’t take it. see? I’ve got different stuff in me.
I feel like I’m in stir. I don't mean behind bars,
real bars, I’m talking about this body of mine,
I’m imprisoned in mortality. Every second that
l>asses I feel the noose drawing tighter — the Grim

AST— 3P

Reaper scything along. See what I mean? You
fellows don’t feel that. You never will. Neither
will anybody else in this civilization. You’ll never
die except by accident, but you don't have any
accidents: no disease, either. Death! Ugh!”

A very real shudder shook him. Suddenly he
sat down, leaning forward, his elbows on his knees
Kis eyes narrowed on Bruce, grew ugly with fury.

“What’s your decision?”

Bruce crossed his legs. He said quietly, “There
are several things you don’t understand about our
civilization. Greeley. Very important things.
Maybe you can’t understand them. I don’t know.
I've studied the twentieth century in many of its
phases, but I confess that I don’t completely un-
derstand the motives that drove humanity then.
Look at our world. I think we’ve changed human
nature. It’s taken a long time, but here we are,
without disease, either physical or mental. We
move quietly and with a contentment which may

ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION

be incredible to you. Immortality has helped. We
have no death fears.

“But look at our immortality. What good would
it be with fear in the background? Fear of each
other. Of superstition. Fear based on unfounded
beliefs. We have eradicated fear — ^we've cut it
away like a tumor.” Bruce made an incisive mo-
tion with his finger. “So we can appreciate our
immortality, because we are not afraid to live.
Now a new factor, a twentieth-century being,
comes to the thirty-sixth century. The mixture
is not good. Such a person, we feel, could not by
any stretch of the imagination add to the general
welfare of our race; much less add to his own wel-
fare. I operate according to that code of office.”

Greeley slid to the very edge of the couch, eyes
squinted up against the smoke from the cigar.
“What’s your decision?” he ground out.

Bruce said, “No."

The big man rose with an oath and threw his
cigar violently against the wail. “I thought so,”
he shouted, his face turning slowly red. “I thought
so when you began stalling me three or four weeks
ago. All that bunk about studying me. You de-
cided then that I didn't 'fit' into your namby-
pamby silk civilization where everybody falls into
a mold and too bad for them if they don’t.

"You’re all eighteen years old, and polite and
noble and gentle. You work every other year for
four hours a day. The rest of the time, you
parasitize off of machines. You're so damned
superior you stink. You haven't got an ounce of
charity in you. You can't appreciate a man from
the twentieth century, born in an age when you
had to work your guts out to get any place. When
you had to harden up like steel and knocked the
other guy down before he took you over the ropes.
So now I don’t ‘fit’ and you won’t give me im-
mortality.”

He burst into a wild, incredulous laugh which
abruptly stopped as he fastened his intense, feral
eyes on Bruce.

“’Why, I’m so superior in real, animal alivenes.s
to you birds,” he bit out. “that I wouldn't trade
my body or my outlook for a dozen of yours.
Noble! Gentle! Courteous! Weak, sniveling,
snobbish degenerates, you mean. O. K., O. K.
You asked for it. And believe you me. you’re
going to regret it. You’re going to be glad to give
me immortality before I’m through with you. It’s
a promise! Now get out. I know my rights.
These are my quarters until I choose to move, and
what the hell do you mean walking in without
knocking? Get out!”

Bruce stood up, face slightly pale. "Come on,”
he told Jan quietly.

Greeley slammed the door after them.

Bruce hesitated with his well-manicured finger
hovering an inch from the elevator button. He
turned to Jan, lips flickering with a curious smile.

“So that’s what they were like,” he said slowly.
He gave a convulsive shudder.

Bruce Cort, Administrator of the Terrestrial
Physico-Stasis Application Bureau, walked the
decks of the Alpha Centauri passenger liner. It
was his third day out. He had forgotten Greeley
entirely, for the problem he presented had been
solved. Greeley had received the only death sen-
tence that was possible, and after he had lived his
span of years, civilization would go on as it had be-
fore; indeed, its even pulse would be not one whit
disturbed by Greeley’s presence. Bruce Cort
walked briskly, five hundred years of life behind
him. To all appearance, he was eighteen years
of age.

He was vaguely surprised that the decks were
empty. Ordinarily, youngsters, both in the
changed and unchanged classification, would have
been scattered along the transparency of the ob-
servation ports goggling at the pure blackness
behind and the blackness in front ; and stumbling
with the difficult explanation of the rainbow ring
perpendicular to the ship’s course, and of which
the ship was ever the center. The ship was travel-
ing at several times the speed of light.

There was no one on deck. Bruce started to-
ward the lower deck, and ran into the captain.

“Hi there, Bruce. Did you hear him?”

"Hear who ?”

“Greeley. They've got him tuned in on the
Public Wave.” Captain Iowa Lasser grinned. “A
rather funny chap. Of course, it’s ridiculous, but
he’s got an audience, and they’re laughing as they
never laughed before. Salon’s packed.”

Bruce frowned at him and said, “Think i’ll go
down and listen to that.”

'T’ll go with you.”

As they neared the salon. Bruce heard a wave of
laughter that quickly died away. He and Lasser
stepped into the salon. From the grating above the
orchestra stand Greeley’s voice was coming. It
was a pleasant voice, powerful, unctuous, rhythmic,
modulated as if the speaker were following a scaje,

"And them were the days, fellows, believe you
me. Thirteen hundred years ago. Standing here
on the Square, looking into your beaming, intelli-
gent faces, still I got to admit that compared to
the real he-men of my time, all of you are jack-
asses.”

The crow roared. Captain Iowa Lasser giggled
a high-pitched sound. He turned to Bruce. “What
are jackasses. Bruce?" he gasped.

Bruce stared at him uncomprehendingly. Fi-
nally he shrugged. “Look it up in the Encyclo-
pedia.” His expression hovered between a frown
and an uncertain smile.

“Everything and everybody in them days,” said
Greeley, “was stronger and better built. Them
were the men that built your present civilization.

BACKFIRE

Immortality ! I have to laugh. If they’d suspected
for one minute that their civilization was going to
give way to one like this, they would have cut their
throats. They believed in liberty and freedom and
justice for all, they believed in the hallowed tenets
that their forefathers laid down. Washington,
Lincoln, Roosevelt — their names went ringing
down the corridors of time! Why? Because they
died, and nobody gave a damn for ’em while they
were alive.”

The crowd was silent. Lasser’s eyes moistened
a bit. “He's got a nice choice of phrases, eh?” he
asked of Bruce.

Bruce wrinkled his nose.

Lasser, eyes still moist, said, his eyes fastened
on the annunciator. “He’s got a good point,
anyway.”

Bruce said patiently, “just what, captain, is he
talking about?”

Greeley was talking again, however. “Civiliza-
tion! Putrefaction, you mean. Why even the
canaries of my time was hardier, and believe you
me, I got in mind two particular canaries.”

The crowd was quiet, tense, as he told a long
story of a canary that became involved in a bad-
minton game.

Lasser opened his mouth and bellowed. Bruce
hardly heard him above a similarly loud indication
of amusement from the crowd. There were tears
running down Lasser's cheeks. “A riot, isn’t he?”
Lasser choked. “What’s badminton, anyway?”
“Why," asked Bruce, “are you laughing if you
don't know that?”

Lasser gurgled between spasms of laughter, “It’s
. . . just . . . something in his voice.”

Greeley signed off a few minutes later. “So long,
folks. Don’t forget to tune in on the Public Wave
tomorrow at this same time. One hour of fun,
riot, and some common sense. This is yours truly,
Thomas Q. Greeley, signing off.”

Lasser wiped his eyes as the crowd, humming
with laughter and talk, disbanded.

“You don’t care for him, eh. Bruce?”

Bruce had a faraway, hard look in his eyes. He
said slowly, “What do you think about his talk
on immortality?”

Lasser’s hovering grin faded. “It's good com-
mon sense,” he said seriously. “Immortality has
made us soft. At eighteen years of age we apply
for physico-stasis, and physically we never de-
velop beyond eighteen years of age, though men-
tally it’s a different story.”

Bruce said. “But in our civilization, with disease
wiped out, we don’t need anything more than
eighteen-year -old bodies, do we?”

“W-well, I guess not. Still” — Lasser shook his
head uneasily — “it just makes you wonder, Bruce.”
He partly changed the subject, looking at Bruce
curiously. “What’s the story about Greeley,
anyway?”

“He appeared out of thin air on the streets one
day, talking a different language. I identified his
clothing as twentieth century. They put him un-
der a hypnobioscope and taught him the language.
His general explanation was that somebody back
in the twentieth century wanted to get rid of him,
and sent him on a one-way trip with a time ma-
chine. Political enemies.”

“He doesn’t sound like the type to have enemies,
Bruce.”

Bruce smiled crookedly and told him the rest
of the story.

“No! You don’t mean to say he wanted im-
mortality?” Lasser was plainly shocked.

“He wanted it all right.”

“But . . . but from the way he talked — ” Lasser
began falteringly.

"You believe everything you hear?”

“Why shouldn’t I?”

Bruce thought that over. “No reason,” he said
slowly. “Not in our civilization. But when two
civilizations like his and ours get mixed up — ”
He broke off thoughtfully.

Lasser looked at his watch. “Hard to believe he
wants immortality,” he muttered, chewing at his
upper lip. Then suddenly, “Well, I have to be
getting back to the bridge. We’re due in at
Centauri I in seven hours. Be seeing you.” He
went clicking away briskly, head down.

Bruce Cort had a ranch on Centauri I. He
stayed there three days, but his mind wasn’t on
his thoroughbred centaurs, which weren’t really
centaurs at all, but six-legged, high-spirited ani-
mals indigenous to Centauri I. He found himself
tuning in on Greeley’s Hour. The man’s voice
came from Earth at almost infinite velocity, car-
ried through light rays the way electrons are
transmitted through a copper wire. He discovered
that everybody el.se on the ranch was listening, too.

Bruce tried to listen without prejudice, which
meant that by autohypnosis he had to rid his mind
of memory associations of Greeley. He succeeded
partly. Greeley’s voice was a song, plucking at
the emotional centers of his brain. There was no
logic in what he said, but it didn't matter. Greeley
was a voice which commanded humor and pathos.
He damned civilization and aroused no rancor.

“Our civilization,” said Greeley, “was built on
the word /not/ier. Mother! I wish you could have
seen mine, fellows. I sure wish you could — and I'd
hate to have you point out your mothers! I’d
sicken at the sight of them. Now my mother.
She was old. She didn’t have a silky face, and
curving legs and hips and a sexy smile. She was
the way the great Creator meant her to be. She
was my mother! She had the respect that was due
her. and she had a sweet smile, and there were
silver hairs amongst the gold. I shudder for this
civilization. Where will you find a crowning

ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION

glory such as that? Silver hairs among the gold!”

(“Nice choice of phrases,” Lasser had said, his
eyes moist. Probably he was crying now.)

“She died, yes. But was there anything terrible
about death? As I sat at her bedside, and clasped
her dear old hand in mine, there was no fright in
her eyes. She knew she was going to a happier
land. She knew that the arms of her Creator
were outstretched to gather her to his bosom, and
she passed away with a gentle smile on her Ups,
and her last words were, ‘We will see each other
again soon, son.’ And then she was no more.
And I strode away feeling as if I had seen a great
truth — for it was then that I saw the real im-
mortality; not an immortality in life, which is but
a mockery of the real thing, but an immortality
beyond death. I was a happier man for that, fel-
lows, believe you me, when I saw my mother pass
into the great beyond.”

(Such new thoughts, such beautiful thoughts,
such great truths, Lasser was thinking.)

After the broadcast, Bruce decided to go back
home. He took a last stroll around his grounds.
At the stables were some youths who next year
would have their immortality. They were bedding
down the centaurs, but they stopped at their job
and looked at Bruce curiously. With the blunt
forthrightness of the race one spoke the thought
of all : “You're over a half millennium, aren’t you,
Bruce?”

Bruce stopped in midstride. The question was
strange, since age was of little moment. He smiled
quickly. “Five hundred and thirteen. Fourteen
next June.”

“How many children?”

Bruce thought, “Good heavens!” Out loud, he
said, “I’ve really lost track.”

He escaped them with a curiously unsettled state
of mind. “They’re looking at my hair," he thought
in astonishment. He found the stable keeper, and
jerked his head.

“What goes on in their heads?”

“Oh.” The stable keeper added quickly, “They
asked you too, eh? They’ve been listening to
Greeley.” He scowled, tentatively touched at his
hair. He said uncertainly, “I don’t see anything
wrong with good healthy black hair, do you? I
almost feel ashamed of myself. They ought to
squeeze him off the air.”

“He’s got his prerogative,” Bruce reminded him.
“Until the demand for the Public Wave doesn’t
leave him any time he’s allowed one hour in
twenty-four. I think he’ll keep it.”

Why he went back to Earth ahead of schedule,
Bruce could not have said. But he suspected that
he was alarmed. Alarm! Wasn’t that a neurotic
symptom, to be dealt with quickly at Psychiatry?
It was as bad as dreams. And yet, on the three-
day trip, the outlawed emotion grew, for a strange

thing was happening to this thirty-sixth century
civilization. It was in the air, evident in a glance,
or whispers; evident in the crowds who gathered
to listen to one Thomas Q. Greeley, late of the
twentieth century, where life was lived as it should
have been lived, where men were he-men, and
women were she-w'omen, and mothers were
mothers, and fathers were fathers, where human
beings lived the lives their God intended them to
live. Immortality! Luciferian device designed to
trap men forever in their mortal bodies, to strip
them of purpose; to rob them of the incomparable
rewards of aging bodies.

Gone was Greeley the humorist. But people lis-
tened to him more greedily, and it seemed to Bruce
that they were growing mightily ashamed of their
smooth faces and their ugly, unsilvered hair.

Bruce came into his office in the Justice Build-
ing, stripping his plasticoat from his shoulders,
and grinning as Jan Tomaz looked up from behind
the big desk, surprise on his face.

Bruce clapped him on the shoulders. “Been
keeping the job down?” he questioned, eyes stray-
ing to the litter of papers on the desk. “What's
this?”

Jan accompanied him awkwardly to the desk.
“Rejections,” he said nervously.

Bruce shot him a quick glance. "You mean
you’ve been rejecting applicants?”

“No; they’ve been rejecting their mailed applica-
tion forms, with letters accompanying.”

There was something sharp and stabbing in
Bruce’s brain. He snatched up half a dozen letters,
passed his eyes over them. He made a sound in
his throat, and dropped the letters with a litcle
thrust of his hand. “Humph.”

He sat down behind the desk, leaned back and
crossed his legs, fondling slowly at his chin. A
slow, crooked, bitter smile grew on his lips. He
nodded his head toward the near wall, where a
radio and television utility was built in.

“Greeley comes on in one minute. Put him on.”
And, as Jan made the necessary adjustments and
the screen lighted, “You’ve been listening to
Greeley?”

Jan sat down, with a peculiar hesitation. Bruce
noted now that there were peculiar haggard lines
around his eyes. A case for Psychiatry. Bruce
in that moment diagnosed Jan's case completely
and accurately.

“I’ve been listening to him,” said Jan thickly.

“What’s your reaction?”

Jan opened his lips to speak, but no words would
come forth.

Bruce leaned farther back and put his hands be-
hind his head. “I want you to listen to me, Jan —
and I don’t want you to listen to Greeley any
more.” He got up and turned off the radio and
televisor. “At least not for a while,” he amended.
He sat down again.

BACKFIRE

“I know the way your mind is working,” he
continued quietly. '‘You’ve been in a doubly ok-
posed position, and I only wish you’d have wired
me. I’d have come back before I did. Listening
to Greeley, and, on top of that, reading letters
from his supporters, and, still worse, knowing that
the man is giving off false opinions, haven't been
too good for you.

“Keep in mind, Jan. that Greeley wants the
very thing he’s condemning.”

Jan's head shot up. “That’s just it,” he said
tinnily. “I don’t understand it. I’m not a neurotic.
At least t wasn’t when you left.”

“I wish,” Bruce .said, “you’d have been bul-
warked the way I was. Jan. I know twentieth-
century history. More, I realize in some small
way the outlook they had. They weren’t all like
Greeley, far from it. But they were hard, and
they were immune to jingoism to some degree.

“Greeley, admittedly, doesn't talk sense. Nor
does he talk lies. He talks what are ostensibly
opinions. Therein, he shows his knowledge of
our law. If it could be proven that he talks lies,
he would be barred from the ether. As it is, we
can’t prove that he talks false opinions.

“Greeley doesn’t have to talk sense. He has
qualities which have never been necessary in our
civilization. He’s got a voice, for one thing, which
reacts solely on the thalamus. In the twentieth
century, nothing else was needed. It is notorious
fact, and would be true today if anyone wanted to
make use of it, that logic, carefully presented
facts, does not appeal to the human brain. There’s
no bridge across which logic can travel to make
an actual contact between one person’s brain and
another.

“Logic is appreciated; but it does not make for
action. Men act only through emotion. Greeley’s
got virgin territory. That’s the reason for these
letters of rejection we’ve received. We’ll receive
more before this thing is over.’’

Jan sat stone still, face pale and drawn.

■‘Before tt‘s over?” he jerked out. “When?”

Bruce riffled his hand absently through stacks
of letters. “T don’t know — yet. I do know that
we’ll need — a serum.”

He laughed quietly. “Not a real serum. Figura-
tive. Picture, the twentieth century, Jan. A riot
of speeches, and newspapers, and counterspeeches,
and emotional jamborees, and ‘my dear old mother,
silver hairs amongst the gold.’ Prophets and for-
tunetellers and astrologers. Baby-kissing politi-
cians with golden voices and big stomachs. ‘My
country, right or wrong.’ And other nonsense
wherein one did not die, one ‘passed away,’
Churches and faiths all with the same God. only
different.

“In this morass, the people lived. Tliey were
very hard, or they learned to be hard. They were

eternally on their guard, and many of them fought
to peer beneath the razzle dazzle of jingoism for
the solid cloth of truth. Of course, it was impos-
sible to succeed very much, but they realized the
presence of the enemy. To great degree, the
civilization was diseased, but there was the fight
for immunity.

“Now, out of the madhouse comes one Thomas Q.
Greeley, one of the disease germs, and lands in the
body — our thirty-sixth century. Thomas Q.
Greeley is a very potent disease germ, Jan, and
he has not only diseased the body, but the body
does not realize the presence of the enemy.

“To cure the body, one needs a serum that will
make the body strong enough to throw off its
disease.

“Peculiarly, Jan. you’re in the position of realiz-
ing the disease, but, by certain factors, are sup-
pressed from fighting it. and therefore diseased
yourself. Not a pretty picture, is it? But an
accurate one, I think. You've got two opposing
beliefs fixed in your mind, and it's a mind that’s
not accustomed to such a problem. And therefore,
you’re somewhat neurotic. Everybody in the
twentieth century had a neurosis in one form or
another, and it was the accepted thing, but it
caused all the troubles in the world: the futile
fight between the conscious and the unconscious,
the soldiers being sordid untruths against mathe-
matically precise realism.”

Jan drew a long breath. “I feel a little bit bet-
ter,” he admitted.

“We’ll have to send you to Psychiatry, anyway,
Jan — after it’s over. They'll shock your thalamus-
all I can do is talk to the prefrontal lobes. In the
meantime, go to your quarters and stay there a
couple of days, and try not to talk to anybody,
particularly about Greeley. Then you might drop
back here and maybe I’ll have the ingredients of a
serum.”

After Jan had gone, Bruce sat still, frowning,
his lips hovering over the word “maybe.”

But presently, he moved, and switched in the
televisor, leaving the radio off. The screen
lighted, swirled, and the pieces of the picture fell
into place, It was seven minutes after three,
Greeley was talking.

The pickup took in the Square at the heart of
the city. Low buildings bounded it. The Square
was jam-packed, and Greeley stood on the platform
at the center, facing a microphone and the scan-
ning apparatus. Greeley was talking, throwing
his head to the left in little emphatic movements,
now and then using his hands, his expression
changing subtly and astonishingly with every
word. He was a big man, with a little extra fat,
and a broad face bisected with a great blade of a
nose. He was thirty-two years of age.

Bruce figured there must be twenty or twenty-

ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION

five thousand of the Unchanged listening. There
were probably some five thousand of the Changed,
these latter all being under twenty-five. Bruce
diagnosed the situation. Men as old as himself,
or in the same magnitude of age, would listen,
but they would be resentful. They might even
feel shame. Captain Iowa Lasser was two hun-
dred years. The stable keeper was about that.
It was likely that the majority of men in that age
group felt as they did. Changed and Unchanged,
they would be affected. Diseased.

But Bruce knew that he was immune.

Was he the only one that was immune, from
here to the farthest inhabited planet of the Uni-
verse? That was not likely. There would be a
few others — those who understood the twentieth
century. Among these would be psychiatrists,
almost certainly. But even they would not have
Bruce's resistance, because only Bruce understood
the game that Greeley was playing.

Bruce’s breath came short. Good heavens!
From here to the farthest inhabited planet!

What could he do? Tell them Greeley wanted
immortality? No. Logic again. Lasser had pre-
ferred not to believe him.

Bruce turned the radio on, and as Greeley’s
voice swelled, cut down for volume. Then he sat
down again.

“ — cut to a pattern. That's what immortality
has done for you, fellows. One color hair and
good-looking noses and slim, eighteen-year-old
bodies. I sure wish you could have been born in
the twentieth century. Look at me!" Greeley-
slapped his swelling chest. "I'm different. I’m
the most distinguished man in this civilization
right now. Oh, I'm not conceited. It's a {act? I’m
different. Why are you listening to me instead of
to one of your own kind? Because I stand out.
I'm older. I show my age! I don’t hide behind
a silk body, skulking, while my mind grows older.
I’m not ashamed, see? That's what all of you are.
Ashamed. Ashamed of yourselves, and hiding
from the benevolent eye of the Creator.

“I wish you could have been born in the twen-
tieth century, fellows. Everybody was different.
Everybody stood out. Everybody was looked up
to by somebody. I don’t care who he was. But
who looks up to you when you’re all at the same
level and there’s no basis for comparison? Who
calls you ‘mister’ ? Why, the youngest brat amongst
you calls the oldest by his first name, and there’s
no respect.”

After this broadcast, Bruce sat still, waiting.
The waiting was not long. The girl in the outer
office stuck her head in the door. She was stut-
tering, a phenomenon which Bruce had heard of,
but not heard. She announced one Thomas Q.
Greeley.

Greeley came pounding into the office with long

strides, shoving the door shut behind him without
a break in his motion. There was a glitter deep
beneath his eyes.

"Hello, Cort,” he said jovially. “Man, did I
panic ’em today? I’ve got ’em groveling. They
worship me.” His hand plunged into his pocket
and came out with a cigar as he sat down, stretch-
ing long legs out before him. He held the cigar
up, a grieved expression on his broad face.

“My last one!” he exclaimed. “I’m not smoking
it. I’m thinking maybe we can grow some more
tobacco the way they grew that chicken heart
back in my time.”

“That might be possible.” Bruce nodded.

“I’ll have every last man in this civilization with
a cigarette in his mouth before I'm through!”
Greeley charged, his eyes cunning with delight
as he watched Bruce’s reaction.

“Smoking is a delayed manifestation of the
suckling instinct,” Bruce informed him.

Greeley stared at him. He gave a short laugh.
"You birds give me a pain. You’ve got every
human emotion catalogued and under control. It’s
a damned shame, that’s what it is. Why, back in
my time — "

Bruce said, “Careful. Now you’re beginning to
believe your own arguments against immortality."

Greeley’s face fell. He hunched forward. “You
may be right at that.” he said seriously. Then he
jumped up, walking furiously back and forth. He
stopped and looked at Bruce through beetling
brows.

"That’s just a sample!” he stated, jerking his
thumb in the direction of the Square. “I’ve got
billions of people listening to me. I’m insulting
them and they’re loving every word of it. This
is revolution, Cort — revolution! Can you get that
through your head? The civilization of the im-
.mortals is about to fall. I'm telling you it will.
I'll arouse them to fever pitch. I'll have them
charging the Radiogen Hospitals all over the
Universe. And I’ll get away with it and nobody’ll
stop me !”

Bruce’s eyes lidded. He swung one foot slowly
back and forth. "What makes you so sure you
can keep on?”

“Because I know the law.” Greeley’s massive
head jutted forward. “You can't stop me, nobody
can. I'm not telling lies. I’m giving off good,
sound opinions. And I’ll have the Square every
day because that’s what the Square is for. Only
nobody has ever used it lately because everybody’s
got the same opinions as everybody else, and who
wants to listen to somebody spout off their own
thoughts?

‘Tve got new thoughts, Cort. New for this
day and age, anyway.” He leered. "More, I know
mob psychology. I'll whip them to fever heat.
All over the Universe. Nobody listens to the
regular broadcasts any more when they can tune

BACKFIRE

in on Greeley’s Hour. It’s something new. It’s
wild and rugged and shocking and it’s the truth.
So help me, it’s the truth. And they know it.
Everybody knows it. Everywhere, the Unchanged
are sending in rejection letters, saying they don’t
want immortality. That’s only the beginning — if
you let me go on. Physico-Stasis Administrators
will be affected, too. They won’t want their chil-
dren growing up to become Immortal. Laws will
be made banishing immortality.

“Think I can’t do it. Cort?’’

“Of course you can.” •

Greeley smashed his hand on the desk, his eyes
hot. “Then give me immortality! I’ll stop it.
I’ll wean ’em back the other way, and everything
will die down!”

Bruce said, “Perhaps you know that if I gave
you immortality, I’d violate my code of office?”
Greeley sneered. “Look who’s talking. Instead
you prefer to betray humanity. Why, by Heaven,
I’ll make a one-man conquest of the Universe.
I've got the sheer vocal power to do it. I’ll break
i.ivilization if necessary. Can’t you get it through
your head that this is the blow-off, the big push?
Pm a bull in a china shop!”

“I thought of a better metaphor,” said Bruce.
Greeley panted, “And you let a damned code of
office stand in your way. Grow up ! Back in my
time, nobody would have thought twice about
violating his code of office to save his own life,
or to make an extra thousand bucks. Grow up,
Cort. Break a law for a change. I’d have some
respect for you if you did!”

Bruce stared at him silently, his eyes curiously
expressionless. He said at last, “Come back in
iwo days from now, after the broadcast.”

Greeley tried to read his expression. “You’ll
give me a definite ‘yes’ or ‘no’ answer then?”
“That’s it.”

The muscles of Greeley’s face slowly relaxed.
!-Ie turned and flung open the door. His eyes nar-
rowed. “O. K. I’ll be back. But in the mean-
time, I don’t figure on calling off my big guns.
I’ll go on the air and say what I intended to say,
according to plan. ’By!”

The door slammed.

Bruce sat quite still after Greeley’s departure,
leg swinging idly back and forth.

“Break a law for a change,” he whispered at
length. A peculiar convulsion crossed his face.
His hand was trembling when he worked the radio-
phone strapped around his wrist.

Seryn Channing, Chief Administrator of the
Psychiatry Department of the Radiogen Building,
answered-

“Bruce,” said Bruce. He moistened his lips.
■‘You've listened to Greeley?”

Seryn hesitated a long moment. At length he

•aid dangerously, “If you mean do I believe that
pap of his, no.”

Bruce’s face showed his relief. He launched
into an account of his connection with Greeley.

“Our peculiar system of law — peculiar from the
standpoint of the twentieth century, that is — will
let him get away with it, as long as he wants to
carry on. We can’t stop him, not by direct action.
But he has to be stopped.”

Seryn said dryly, “You admit the man has us
in a trap we can’t escape from. In the same breath,
you say we have to escape. Where’s the logic?”
Bruce was patient. “In all my four hundred
years taking care of the Bureau in the City.
Greeley is the first I've ever refused immortality.
But now — ” He stopped, and went on with diffi-
culty, his face whitening imperceptibly. He
talked for several minutes, while the other man
listened.

A silence followed. Seryn said slowly. “You
can’t do that, Bruce.”

“Can’t I?” Bruce laughed unsteadily. “I’ve
made up my mind. If I fail in my plan, I’ve
broken the law most drastically, and doubtless will
be given my punishment.

“If I succeed, I will have adhered to the letter
of the law. I want you to keep this under your
hat, and I want you to take care of it when we
get there. I'll take the blame. In the meantime,
the more rabid he gets his followers, the better it’ll
be. For us.”

Greeley showed up on the dot, half an hour after
the broadcast. He was wiping his heavy face.
“I’ve got ’em yelling now, ‘Down with immor-
tality,’ Sometimes I scare myself. I made a labor
chain out of five thousand department stores in the
States — back in my time — but that took some
talking and pamphlets and banners. All you got
to do here is talk; say anything. You’re a bunch
of dopes. I got trouble holding them in now.”
He sat down heavily. “Tomorrow they’ll bust
loose if I give ’em the word, Cort. Unless I do
something about it. What is it about my voice
that gets ’em? Must be the same thing that
Hitler had. Hitler was a dictator,” he explained,
but Bruce nodded. “He was going strong when
I was spirited away.” He scowled in memory.
"Whatever happened to him, anyway?”

“He died in Spitzbergen in 1944,” said Bruce.
“He was defeated in the spring of 1943.”

Greeley sighed. “He was a good organizer, too.”
He eyes wandered restlessly about the room, and
finally centered on Bruce’s impassive face. “Well,”
he scowled. “I’m waiting. You told me to come
back in two days. Here I am.”

Bruce said, “We’re due at the Radiogen Labora-
tories at four o’clock.”

“I thought so,” Greeley said, heaving himself
to his feet. “You’re getting smart, eh?”

ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION

“I’ve simply decided you’re worthy of immor-
tality.”

Greeley looked at him admiringly. ‘‘I’ll be
damned if I don’t think you would have made a
good politician. You’re smart. It don’t pay to
buck the current, Cort,” he said in satisfaction.
“Let’s go.”

“It’s a simple process,” Bruce explained in an-
swer to Greeley’s avid, yet somewhat apprehensive
questions as they sped along comfortably high
above the city. “At the core of body cells there
are what are known as radiogens — the real life prin-
ciple. Only they’re also inverted with the proper-
ties of death. Sooner or later they deteriorate.
A new cell has been developed by biologists. They
remove the deteriorating elements, then remake
an old body out of them. You’ll live seven years
in the radiogen chamber, and quite literally you’ll
come out a new man. A complete new body. It’ll
really take only a couple hours, but you won’t
know anything from the minute you go in to the
minute you come out."

“You’ve got a good civilization here.” said
Greeley, nodding his heavy head in satisfaction.

Bruce smiled tightly. He looked sidewise at the
big man. “You don’t mistrust me?”

Greeley grinned mockingly. “Hell, no, I don’t.
You fellows can’t tell a lie. You believe in the good
things of life. You couldn’t commit a crime. I
know psychology. You go at things fair and
square.”

He added hastily, ‘‘Not that I don’t appreciate
it. Believe you me, I do. Tomorrow, with some long
centuries ahead of me, I’ll start my little game of
backtracking with the mob, like I promised.
You’ve got the word of Mrs. Greeley's little boy!”

Bruce guided the foolproof craft to a landing,
thinking his own unexpressed thoughts. What
will you do after you’re given your immortality,
Mrs. Greeley’s son? Where will you find a sub-
stitute for the rotten, jangling excitement of the
twentieth century that your nerves demand? What
will you do to our civilization when you begin to
get restless for the sounds and smells of corrup-
tion that aren’t here? So Bruce’s thoughts ran.

Seryn Channing met them, and himself gave
Greeley the anaesthetic. Bruce saw Greeley
wheeled into the radiogen chamber, saw the door
close, saw the interior of the chamber grow foggy.
Bruce tried to control his nerves, and recognized
it as a neurotic symptom. He found himself
dwelling with peculiar introspect on the intrica-
cies of a mind which could commit a crime, or
otherwise break a law. either in a moral or legal
sense. But at the end of two hours, Greeley came
out of the chamber a new man, and, strangely
silent, returned with Bruce to his quarters in the
Justice Building. Greeley’s skin shone with the
almost undetectable inner radiance of immor-
tality.

Bruce went back to his offices, and sat in the
dark, trying to untangle his thoughts. It seemed
to him, then, as if the greatest danger was not to
civilization, but to himself. He might lose his
respect for himself. Back in the twentieth cen-
tury, however, such loss of integrity must have
been very common.

The luxury of integrity! Tomorrow, if he
failed, he would have loosed upon humanity an
incurable malady in the person of one Thomas Q-
Greeley.

Half an hour before Greeley was due on the
air, Bruce called Jan Tomaz. The recently Changed
man came into the office slowly, hesitantly, as if
in shame for his partial breakdown. The lines of
strain were somewhat gone from his face. Bruce
was almost jovial when he spoke, but it was evident
to him that that was a symptom of hysteria.

He said, watching Jan narrowly, “I’ve purposely
put off telling you this to the last minute, because
I saw nothing to be gained by giving you time
to think. There’s no one else for the job, though.
I’ll have to send you to the infected area, Jan.”

A pathetic despair tugged suddenly at Jan's
face. Bruce winced. He said patiently, “I mean
that I want you to use your prerogative on the
Square.”

He rapidly told Jan what he v/anted him to do.
He concluded, “If you use words with emotional
connotations, the chances of success are increased.
But — don’t let Greeley get the microphone after-
ward.”

Jan looked at Bruce as if Bruce had subtly be-
trayed him. He stuttered. “B-but if it doesn't
work?”

“It has to work, Jan. "

Bruce held Jan's eyes, and walked forward until
he was a few inches separated from the younger
man.

He shouted full into Jan's face: “Go ahead!”

Jan had no defense against such a highly emo-
tional command. He left the room on a run.

Bruce turned on the televisor and auditory unit,
nnd immediately heard the subway rumble of the
mob. A twentieth-century mob, flaming with in-
fected passions, dangerous, furious, solidly packed
on the Square around the dais, waiting for Greeley
to come up through the trapdoor in the floor of the
dais, eager to drink in his voice, his expressions,
his logic. They were a mob that only Greeley
could handle. But what species of logic was he
intending to use that would turn off the flame
beneath their steaming hatred of immortality?

Bruce stood quite still, waiting for Greeley to
appear. Each heartbeat was a second. Bruce mar-
veled. Had this alarm, these uncertain stabs of
agony, these shortenings of the breath, been a regu-
lar part of twentieth-century life? Yet man had

BACKFIRE

lived through it. There were the wars, for in-
stance. And other pestilences. These things were
gone by tlie turn of the thirty-first century. Then,
in the thirty-sticth century, along had come one
Thomas Q Greeley —

At one minute of three o’clock, Greeley came
up onto the dais from stairs connected with the
underground tunnel. The mob gave him their
ovation. They were thunder and lightning, Bruce
thought, but the lightning was submerged. They
were standing on tiptoe.

Greeley was looking at his watch, waiting.

Bruce saw Jan in the fore of the mob now.
He was working his way toward one of the two
broad stairs that led to the top of the dais. He
made the dais, and to Bruce he looked very small
compared to Greeley. Jan was small in other
ways, too, he saw with sinking heart. When Jan
grabbed the microphone and spoke, his voice was
high, without volume, without compulsion. Fur-
thermore. it was muted, overridden by the voice
of the mob. Jan was demanding the prerogative of
the Public Wave. The seconds ticked away, and
the cheering died down in some measure,

Jan’s desperate voice blasted out. “Citizens!
Behind you stands the man who has showed you
the truth about immortality."

There were some half-hearted cheers of agree-
ment. Bruce slowly, helplessly, shook his head
back and forth.

“He has showed you the sins of immortality!"

This elicited a greater response. The building
surrounding the Square threw back thundering
echoes. Greeley was standing stone still, wary
of face, looking at Jan with his heavy brows drawn
suddenly down. He started forward suddenly, his
jaw hanging open in an amazed, blistering curse.

Jan saw him coming. He dramatically pointed
his arm at Greeley and yelled, “Examine his skin!
Yesterday he was made immortal, at his own re-
quest.”

An invisible switch was thrown and there was
no sound. Nor was there motion, save that of
Greeley. Greeley came up on Jan’s left and his
big arm went up and shoved Jan against the rail-
ing, Greeley made a furious grab for the micro-
phone. His voice bit out, “Fellows — ” But it
wa.s a voice filled with scalding panic, for Greeley
must have seen the youths who suddenly urged
themselves up the stairs. He turned with a flurry
of panic contorting his face. By that time, the
youth.- wore on him. They grabbed at his arms

THE

and held him. Then Greeley went down, sub-
merged in a tangle of human beings. The micro-
phone went down, too.

“Fellows,” came Greeley’s voice, but it was a
high-pitched scream of protest, A roar rippled
over the crowd, spreading outward from the dais.
A stream of human beings came surging up onto
the dais.

Bruce vainly tried to pick Jan from the sicken-
ing carnival of motion and sound. But he couldn’t
keep his fascinated eyes from Greeley. The man
was suddenly held aloft. His clothing had been
stripped from his body. Red furrows were on hU
skin. His neck was hanging at an unnatural angle.
Bruce guessed that he was dead. They had ex-
amined Greeley’s skin.

He turned away from the scene, and sat down,
holding his sick head in his hands. By the time
Jan showed up twenty minutes later, he had ra-
tionalized and was calmer. Jan’s clothing was in
shreds, and his hair was mussed.

“It was sickening." he choked. He buried his
head in his hands, and then raised his eyes and
stared at Bruce as if in a fascination of horror.
■‘How could you have plotted a thing like that.
Bruce! It wasn’t even human!”

Bruce felt an inner convulsion, He had broken
no law, not a legal law. Greeley had served the
best interests of humanity by being made im-
mortal. Proof: he was dead. But what about
other laws, moral laws?

“We’re both patients for the Psychiatry Depart-
ment, Jan," he said grimly. “Looked at that way,
my actions are justified. We found a serum and
administered it. The corpuscles in the area of in-
fection received the strength they needed to over-
throw the disease. The wound will, therefore,
heal and the body will eventually rid itself of the
toxic substances the disease left behind.

"Greeley, I think, realized he was a disease, even
if he didn’t think of that exact metaphor. What
he overlooked was the fact that he might disease
me. He did. When one wishes to discommode,
or otherwise render one’s enemies impotent, one
stoops to a trick. So Greeley taught me, not
realizing that since I’m considered an authority on
the twentieth century. I was extremely susceptible
to contamination from hir. brand of ethics, and.
therefore, no longer incapable of deceit. I applied
the principle of trickery to Greeley, administering
a body blow below the belt. Place the blame on
him. Jan. not me. He backfired on himself."

END

ifiits jtA fftriidau WeWi,

THE SEARCH

By A. E. van Vojt

• Ten days of memory gone. Ten days dropper) out of liis fife. To find
lliose ten days lie tried to retrare liis patli and found it neier liar) been!

iiiListrated by Oman

The hospital bed was hard under his body.
For a tense moment it seemed to Drake that that
was what was bothering him. He turned over into
a more comfortable position — and knew it wasn't
physical at all. It was something in his mind, the
sense of emptiness that had been there since they
had told him the date.

After what seemed a long time, the door opened,
and two men and a nurse came in. One of the men
said in a hearty voice:

“Well, how are you. Drake? It’s a shame to
see you down like this.”

The man was plumpish, a good-fellow type.
Drake took his vigorous handshake, lay very still

THE SEARCH

for a moment, and then allowed the awkward but
necessary question to escape his lips:

“I’m sorry,” he said stiffly, “but do I know you?”
The man said: “I'm Bryson, sales manager of
the Quik-Rite Co, We manufacture fountain pens,
pencils, ink, writing paper and a dozen kindred
lines that even grocery stores handle.

“Two weeks ago, I hired you and put you on
the road as salesman. The next thing I knew you
were found unconscious in a ditch, and the hos-
pital advised me you were here.”

He finished: “You had identification papers on
you connecting you with us.”

Drake nodded. But he felt tense. It was all
very well to have someone fill a gap in your mind,
but — He said finally:

“My last remembrance is my decision to apply
for a job with your firm. Mr. Bryson. I had just
been turned down by the draft board for an odd
reason. Apparently, something happened to my
mind at that point and — ”

He stopped. His eyes widened at the thought
that came. He said slowly, conscious of an un-
pleasant sensation:

“Apparently, I've had amnesia.”

He saw that the house doctor, who had come
in with Bryson, was looking at him sharply.
Drake mustered a wan smile.

“I guess it’s all right, doc. What gets me is
the kind of life I must have lived these last two
weeks. I’ve been lying here straining my brain.
There’s something there in the back of my mind
that — ”

The doctor was smiling behind his pince-nez.
“I’m glad you're taking it so well. Nothing to
worry about, really. As for what you did, I as-
sure you that our experience has been that the
victim usually lives a reasonably normal life.
One of the most frequent characteristics is that
the victim takes up a different occupation. You
didn’t even do that.”

He paused, and the plum^) Bryson said heartily:
“I can clear up the first week for you. I had dis-
covered, when I hired you, that you’d lived as a
boy in some village on the Warwick Junction-
Kissling branch line. Naturally, I put you on
that route.

“We had orders from you from five towns on
the way. but you never got to Kissling. Maybe
that will help you. . . . No!” Bryson shrugged.
“Well, never mind. As soon as you’re up, Drake,
come and see me. You’re a good man, and they’re
getting scarce."

Drake said: “I'd like to be on the same ter-

ritory, if it’s all right.”

Bryson nodded. “Mind you. it’s only a matter
of finishing up what you missed before, and then
moving farther along the main line. But it’s
yours, certainly. I guess you want to check up
on what happened to you.”

“That,” said Drake, “is exactly what I have in
mind. Sort of a search for my memory.” He
managed a smile. “But now . . . but now, I want
to thank you for coming.”

“S’all right. S’long.”

Bryson shook hands warmly, and Drake watched
him out of the door.

Two days later, Drake climbed off the Trans-
continental at Warwick Junction, and stood blink-
ing in the bright sun of early morning. His first
disappointment had already come. He had hoped
that the sight of the cluster of houses silhouetted
against a canyon would bring back memories.

It had, but only from his boyhood when he and
his parents had passed through the Junction on
various trips. There were new houses now, and
the railway station hadn’t been there twenty
years before.

Too obviously his mind was not being jarred
into the faintest remembrance of what he had
done or seen sixteen days earlier,

Drake shook his head in bewilderment. “Some-
body knew me.” he thought. “Somebody must
have seen me. I talked to storekeepers, travelers,
trainmen, hotel men. I’ve always had a sociable
bent, so—”

“Hello, there, Drake, old chap." said a cheerful
voice beside him. “You look as if you’re thinking
about a funeral.”

Drake turned, and saw a rather slender young
chap, dark-faced and dark-haired, about thirty
years old. He had the slouch of too-thin people
who walk too much carrying sample cases, and he
must have noticed something in his, Drake’s, eyes,
for he said quickly:

“You remember me, don’t you — Bill Kellie!”
He laughed easily “Say, come to think of it,
I’ve got a bone to pick with you. What did you
do with that girl, Selanie? I've been twice past
Piffer’s Road since I last saw you, and she didn’t
come around either time. She — ”

He stopped, and his gaze was suddenly sharp.
“Say, you do remember me, don't you?”

To Drake, the astounding if not notable fact
was that Piffer's Road should be the place name.
Was it possible that he had got the idea of going
to the farmhouse where he had been born, to look
the old homestead over? He emerged from his
intense inner excitement, and realized from the
expression on Kellie’s face that it was time to
explain. He finished finally:

“So you see. I’m in quite a mental fix. Maybe,
if you wouldn’t mind, you could give me some
idea of what happened while I was with you. Who
is this girl. Selanie?"

“Oh, sure,” said Kellie, “sure, I’ll — ” He paused,
frowned. “You’re not kiddin’ me, are you?" He
waved Drake silent. “O. K., O. K., I’ll believe
you. We’ve got a half-hour before the Kissling

ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION

local is due. Amnesia, eh? I’ve heard about
that stuff, but — Sa-a-ay, you don’t think that
old man could have had anything to do with — ”
He banged his right fist into his left palm. “I’ll
bet that’s it.”

“An old man!” Drake said. He caught himself,
finished firmly; “What about this story?”

The train slowed. Through the streaky window.
Drake could see a rolling valley with patches of
green trees and a gleaming, winding thread of
water. Then some houses came into view, half a
dozen siding tracks, and finally the beginning of
a wooden platform.

A tall, slim, fine-looking girl walked past his
window carrying a basket. Behind Drake, the
traveling salesman, who had got on at the last
stop, and to whom he had been talking, said:

“Oh, there’s Selanie. I wonder what kind of
supergadget she’s got for sale today.”

Drake leaned back in his scat, conscious that he
had seen all of Piffer’s Road that he cared to. It
was queer, that feeling of disinterest. After all, he
had been born three miles along the road. Neverthe-
less, there it was. He didn’t give a darn. His
mind fastened only slowly on what the other had
said.

“Selanie!” he echoed then. “Curious name!
Did you say she sells things?”

"Does she sell things!” the man, Kellie, ex-
ploded.

He must have realized the forcefulness of his
words, for he drew a deep, audible breath; his
blue eyes looked hard at Drake. He started to say
something, stopped himself, and finally sat smil-
ing a secret smile.

After a moment, he said: “You know I really
must apologize. I’ve just now realized that I’ve
monopolized the conversation ever since we
started talking.”

Drake smiled with polite tolerance. “You’ve
been very entertaining.”

Kellie persisted: “What I mean by that is,

it’s just penetrated to me that you told me you
sold fountain pens, among other things.”

Drake shrugged. He wondered if he looked as
puzzled as he was beginning to feel. He watched
as Kellie drew out a pen, and held it out for him
to take. Kellie said:

“See anything queer about that?”

The pen was long, slender, of a dark, expensive-
looking material. Drake unscrewed the cap slowly
—slowly, because in his mind was the sudden, wry
thought that he was in for one of those pointless
arguments about the relative merits of the pens
he was selling and —

He said quickly; “This looks right out of my
class. My company’s pens retail for a dollar.”
The moment he had spoken, he realized he had

left himself wide open. Kellie said with a casual
triumph :

“That’s exactly what she charged me for it.”
“Who?”

“Selanie! The girl who just got on the train.
She’ll be along in a few minutes selling some-
thing new. She’s always got an item that’s new
and different.”

He grabbed the pen from Drake’s fingers. “I’ll
show you what’s queer about this pen.”

His fingers reached toward a paper cup that
stood on the window sill. He said with an irritat-
ing smugness: “Watch!”

The pen tilted over the cup ; Kellie seemed to
press with his finger on the top — and ink began
to flow.

After about three minutes, it filled the cup to
the brim. Kellie opened the window, carefully
emptied the blue liquid onto the ground between
the coach and the platform — and Drake erupted
from his paralysis.

“Good heavens!” he gasped. "What kind of a
tank have you got inside that pen? Why, it —
“Wait!” ■

Kellie’s voice was quiet, but he was so obviously
enjoying himself that Drake pulled himself to-
gether with a distinct effort. His brain began to
whirl once more, as Kellie pressed the top again,
and once again ink began to flow from the fan-
tastic pen. Kellie said:

“Notice anything odd about that ink?”

Drake started to shake his head, then he started
to say that the oddness was the quantity, then he
gulped hoarsely:

"Red ink!”

“Or maybe,” Kellie said coolly, “you’d prefer
purple. Or yellow. Or green. Or violet.”

The pen squirted a tiny stream of each color,
as he named it. In each case, he turned the part
he was pressing ever so slighldy. Kellie finished
with the triumphant tone of a man who has ex-
tracted every last drop of drama from a situation:
“Here, maybe you’d like to try it yourself.”
Drake took he remarkable thing like a con-
noisseur caressing a priceless jewel. As from a
great distance he heard Kellie chattering on:

“ — her father makes them,” Kellie was saying.
“He’s a genius with gadgets. You ought to see
some of the stuff she’s been selling on this train
the last month. One of these days, he’s going to
get wise to himself, and start large-scale manu-
facture. When that day comes, all fountain pen
companies and a lot of other firms go out of
business.”

It was a thought that had already occurred to
Drake. Before he could muster his mind for
speech, the pen was taken from his fingers; and
Kellie was leaning across the aisle toward a

THE SEARCH

handsome gray-haired man who sat there. Kellie
said:

“I noticed you looking at the pen, sir, while I
was showing it to my friend. Would you like to
examine it?”

“Why, yes,” said the man.

He spoke in a low tone, but the sound had an
oddly rich resonance that tingled in Drake’s ears.
The old man’s fingers grasped the extended pen
and — just like that — the pen broke.

“Ohl” Kellie exclaimed blankly.

“I beg your pardon,” said the fine-looking old
man. A dollar appeared in his hand. “My fault.
You can buy another one from the girl when
she comes."

He leaned back, and buried himself behind a
newspaper.

Drake saw that KelHe was biting his lip. The
man sat staring at his broken pen, and then at
the dollar bill, and then in the direction of the
now hidden face of the gray-haired man, At last,
Kellie sighed:

“I can’t understand it. I’ve had the pen a month
now. It's already fallen to a cement sidewalk,
and twice onto a hardwood floor — and now it
breaks like a piece of rotted wood.”

He shrugged, but his tone was complaining as
he went on after a moment: “I suppose actually
you can’t really expect Selanie’s father to do a
first-rate job with the facilities he’s got—”

He broke off excitedly: “Oh, look, there’s

Selanie now. I wonder what she’s featuring to-
day.”

A sly smile crept into his narrow face. “Just
wait till I confront her with that broken pen. I
kidded her when I bought it, told her there must
be a trick to it. She got mad then, and guaranteed
it for life — What the devil is she selling, any-
way? Look, they’re crowding around her.”

Quite automatically, Drake climbed to his feet.
He craned his neck the better to see over the
heads of the crowd that was watching the girl
demonstrate something at the far end of the car,

“Good heavens!” a man’s deep voice exclamed-
“How much are you charging for those cups?
How do they work?”

“Cups?” said Drake, and moved toward the
group in a haze of -fascination. If he had seen
right, the girl was handing around a container
which kept filling full of liquid. And people
would drink, and it would fill again instantly.

Drake thought: The same principle as the

fountain pen. Somehow, her father had learned
to precipitate liquids and —

His brain did a twisting dive, then came up
spinning. What . . . in . . . kind of gadget genius
was there behind this . . . this priceless stuff?
Why, if he. Drake, could make a deal with the

man for the company, or for himself, he was
made. He —

He was trembling violently j and the tremendous
thought ended, as the girl’s crystal-clear voice
rose above the excited babble :

“The price is one dollar each. It works by
chemical condensation of gases in the air; the
process is known only to my father — but wait. I
haven’t finished my demonstration."

She went on, her voice cool and strong against
the silence that settled around her:

“As you see. it’s a folding drinking cup with-
out a handle. First, you open it. Then you turn
the top strip clockwise. At a certain point, water
comes. But now — watch, I’m turning it farther.
The liquid is now turning green, and is a sweet
and very flavorsome drink. I turn the strip still
farther, and the liquid turns red, becomes a sweet-
sourish drink that is very refreshing in hot
weather.”

She handed the cup around; and it was while
it was being passed around from fingers to clutch-
ing fingers that Drake managed to wrench his gaze
from the gadget, and really look at the girl.

She was tall, about five feet six. and she had
dark-brown hair. Her face was unmistakably of
a fine intelligence. It was thin and good-looking,
and there was an odd proud tilt to it that gave
her a startling appearance of aloofness in spite of
the way she was taking the dollar bills that were
being thrust at her.

Once again, her voice rose : “I’m sorry, only
one to a person. They’ll be on the general market
right after the war. These are only souvenirs.”

The crowd dissolved, each person retiring to
his or her individual seat. The girl came along
the aisle, and stopped in front of Drake. He
stepped aside instinctively, and then abruptly
realized what he was doing.

“Wait!” he said piercingly. “My friend showed
me a fountain pen you were selling. I wonder—”

“I still have a few,” she nodded gravely. “Would
you like a cup, also?”

Drake remembered Kellie. “My friend would
like another pen. too. His broke and — ”

“I’m sorry, I can't sell him a second pen.” She
paused there. Her eyes widened: she said with a
weighty slowness. “Did you say — his broke?”

Astoundingly, she swayed. She said wildly:
“Let me see that. Where is your friend?”

She took the two pieces of fountain pen from
Kellie's fingers, and stared at them. Her mouth
began to tremble. Her hands shook. Her face
took on a gray, drawn look. Her voice, when she
spoke, was a whisper:

“Tell me . . . tell me, how did it happen? Ex-
actly how?”

“Why”— Kellie drew back in surprise — “I was

ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION

handing it to that old gentleman over there
when — ”

He stopped because he had lost his audience.
The girl spun on her heel — and that was like a
signal. The old man lowered his paper, and
looked at the girl.

She stared back at him with the fascinated ex-
pression of a bird cornered by a snake. Then, for
a second time within two minutes, she swayed.
The basket nearly dropped from her hand as she
ran, but. somehow, she hung on to it, as she
careened along the aisle,

A moment later, Drake saw her racing across
the platform. She became a distant, running form
on Piffer’s Road.

“What the hell!” Kellie exploded.

He whirled on the old man. “What did you do
to her?” he demanded fiercely. “You—”

His voice sank into silence, and Drake who had
been about to add his hard words to the demand
remained quiet, also.

The salesman’s voice there under the bright sun.
on the platform at Warwick Junction, faded.
It required a moment for Drake to grasp that the
story was finished.

“You mean,” he demanded, “that’s all? We just
sat there like a couple of dummies out-faced by
an old man? And that was the end of the busi-
ness? You still don’t know what scared the girl?”

He saw that there was the strange look on
Kellie’s face of a man who was searching mentally
for a word or phrase to describe the indescribable.
Kellie said finally:

“There was something about him like . . . like
all the tough sales managers in the world rolled
into one, and feeling their orneriest. We just
shut up.”

It was a description that Drake could appre-
ciate. He nodded grimly, said slowly: “He didn’t
get off?”

“No, you were the only one who got off.”

“Eh?”

Kellie looked at him. “You know, this is the
damnedest, funniest thing. But that’s the way
it was. You asked the trainman to check your
bags at Inchney. The last thing I saw of you
before the train pulled out, you were walking up
Piffer’s Road in the direction the girl had gone
and — Ah, here comes the Kissling local now.”

The combination freight and passenger train
backed in weightily. Later, as it was winding
in and out along the edge of a valley, Drake sat
staring wonderingly at the terrain so dimly re-
membered from his- boyhood, only vaguely con-
scious of Kellie chattering beside him.

He decided finally on the course he would
take: This afternoon he’d get off at Inchney,

make his rounds until the stores closed, then get
a ride in some way to Piffer’s Road, and spend the

long, summer evening making inquiries. If he
recollected correctly, the distance between the
large town and the tiny community was given as
seven miles. At worst he could walk back to
Inchney in a couple of hours —

The first part proved even simpler than that.
There was a bus, the clerk at the Inchney Hotel
told him, that left at six o’clock.

At twenty after six, Drake climbed off, and,
standing in the dirt that was Piffer’s Road,
watched the bus throb off down the highway.
The sound faded Into remoteness as he trudged
across the railway track.

The evening was warm and quiet, and his coat
made a weight on his arm. It would be cooler
later on, he thought, but at the moment he almost
regretted that he had brought it.

There was a woman on her knees, working on
the lawn at the first house. Drake hesitated, then
went over to the fence, and stared at the woman
for a moment. He wondered if he ought to re-
member her. He said finally:

“I beg your pardon, madam.”

She did not look up; she did not rise from the
flowerbed, where she was digging. She was a
bony creature in a print dress, and she must have
seen him coming to be so obstinately silent.

“I wonder,” Drake persisted, “if you can tell
me where a middle-aged man and his daughter
live. The daughter is called Selanie, and she used
to sell fountain pens and drinking cups and things
to people on the train. She — ”

The woman was getting up. She came over. At
close range, she didn’t seem quite so large or
ungainly. She had gray eyes that looked at him
with a measure of hostility, then with curiosity.

“Sa-a-ay,” she said sharply, “weren’t you along
here about two weeks ago, asking about them?
I told you then that they lived in that grove over
there.”

She waved at some trees about a quarter of a
niile along the road, but her eyes were narrowed,
wintry pools as she stared at him. “I don’t get it,”
she said grimly.

Drake couldn’t see himself explaining about
his amnesia to this crusty-voiced, suspicious crea-
ture, and he certainly wasn't going to mention
that he had once lived in the district. He said
hastily:

“Thank you very much. I—”

“No use going up there again,” said the woman.
“They pulled out the same day you were there
last time ... in their big trailer. And they
haven’t come back.”

“They’re gone!” Drake exclaimed.

In the intensity of his disappointment, he was
about to say more when he grew conscious that
the woman was staring at him with a faint, satisfied
smile on her face. She looked as if she had sue-

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cessfully delivered a knock-out blow to an un-
pleasant individual.

“I think,” Drake snapped, “I’ll go up and have
a look around, anyway.”

He spun on his heel, so angry that for a while
he scarcely realized that he was walking in the
ditch and not on the road. His fury yielded
slowly to disappointment, and that in turn faded
before the realization that, now that he was up
here, he might as well have a look.

After a moment, he felt amazed that he could
have let one woman get on his nerves to such
an extent in so short a time.

He shook his head, self-chidingly. He’d better
be careful. This business of tracking down his
memory was beginning to wear on him.

A breeze sprang up from nowhere as he turned
into the shadowed grove. It blew softly in his
face, and its passage through the trees was the
only sound that broke the silence of the evening.

It didn’t take more than a moment to realize
that his vague expectations, the sense of— some-
thing — that had been driving him on to this
journey was not going to be satisfied.

For there was nothing, not a sign that human
beings had ever lived here; not a tin can. or a
bundle of garbage, or ashes from a stove. Nothing.

He wandered around disconsolately for a few
minutes, poked gingerly with a stick among a pile
of dead branches — and finally walked back along
the road. This time it was the woman who called
to him.

He hesitated, then went over. After all, she
might know a lot more than she had told. He
saw that she looked more friendly.

“Find anything?” she said with an ill-restrained
eagerness.

Drake smiled grimly at the power of curiosity,
then shrugged ruefully. “When a trailer leaves,”
he said, “it’s like smoke — it just vanishes.”

The woman sniffed. “Any traces that were left
sure went fast after the old man got through
there.”

A thrill like flame coursed through Drake. “The
old man!” he exclaimed violently.

The woman nodded, then said bitterly: “A

fine-looking old chap. Came around first inquiring
from everybody what kind of stuff Selanie had
sold us. Two days later, we woke up in the morn-
ing, and every single piece was gone.”

“Stolen!”

The woman scowled. “Same thing as. There
was a dollar bill for each item — but that’s stealing
for those kind of goods. Do you know, she had
a frying pan that—”

“But what did he want?” Drake interrupted,
bewildered. “Didn't he explain anything when

he was making his inquiries? Surely, you didn't
just let him come around here asking questions.”
To his astonishment, the woman flushed, then
she looked flustered. “I don’t know what came
over me,” she confessed finally, sullenly. “There
was something about him. He looked kind of
commandinglike and important, as if he was a
big executive or something; and besides he — ”

She stopped angrily. “The scoundrel!” she
snapped.

Her eyes narrowed with abrupt hostility. She
peered at Drake. “You’re a fine one for saying
did we ask any questions. What about you?

Standing here pumping me when all the time

Say, let me get this straight: Are you the fellow
who called here two weeks ago? Just how do
you fit into this picture?”

ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION

Drake hesitated. The prospect of having to
tell that story to people like this seemed full of
difficulties. And yet —

She must know more. There must be a great
deal of information about the month that the
girl Selanie and her father had spent in the dis-
trict. One thing was sure — Drake smiled grimly
— if any more facts were available, this woman
would have them.

Hesitation ended. He made his explanation,
but finished a little uncertainly: “So you see, I’m
a man who is — well — in search of his memory.
Maybe I was knocked over the head, although
there’s no lump. Then again, maybe I was doped.
Something happened to me. You say I went up
there. Did I come back? Or what did I do?
What—’’

He stopped with a jump, for, without so much
as a warning, the woman parted her lips, and let
out a bellow:

‘‘Jimmy!” she yelled in an ear-splitting voice,
“JIMMY! C’M’ERE!”

“Yeah, mom!’’ came a boy’s voice from inside
the house.

Drake stared blankly as an uncombed twelve-
year-old with a sharp, eager face catapulted from
a screen door, that banged after him. He listened
still with only partial comprehension as the
mother explained to the boy that “this man was
hit over the head by those people in the trailer,
and he lost his memory, and he’d like you to tell
him what you saw.”

The woman turned to Drake. “Jimmy,” she said
proudly, “never trusted those folk. He was sure
they were Nazis or something, and so he kept a
sharp eye on them. He saw you go up there,
and everything that happened right up to the
time the trailer left.”

She finished: “The reason he can tell you in

such detail exactly what you did is that he could
see everything through the windows, and besides
he went inside once when they weren’t around and
looked the whole place over — just to make sure,
of course, that they weren’t pulling something.”

Drake nodded, suppressing his cynicism. It
was probably as good a reason as any for snoop-
ing — in this case, lucky for him.

The thought ended, as Jimmy’s shrill voice
projected into the gathering twilight—

The afternoon was hot, and Drake, after pausing
to inquire of the woman in the first house as to
where the father and daughter lived, walked
slowly toward the grove of trees she had indi-
cated.

Behind him, the train hooted twice, and then
began to chuff. Drake suppressed a startled im-
pulse to run back and get on. He realized that
he couldn’t have made it. anyway. Besides —

A man didn’t give up the hope of fortune as
easily as that. His pace quickened. By heaven,
when he thought of that pen and that drinking
cup —

He couldn’t see the trailer in the grove until
he turned into the initial shady patch of trees.
When he saw it, he stopped short.

It was much bigger than he had conceived it.
It was as long as a small freight car — and as big —
curiously streamlined.

And no one answered his knock.

He thought tensely : She ran this way. She

must be inside. Uncertain, he walked around
the monster on wheels.

There was a line of windows above the level
of his eyes that made a complete circuit of the
trailer. He could see a gleamy ceiling and the
upper part of what looked like finely paneled
walls. There were three rooms, and the only other
entrance led into the cab of the truck, to which
the trailer was attached.

Back before the first entrance, Drake listened
intently for sounds. But again there was nothing
— nothing except a thin wind that blew gently
through the upper reaches of the trees. Far
away, the train whistled plaintively.

He tried the latch, and the door opened so
easily that his hesitation ended. Deliberately, he
pushed it ajar, and stood there staring into the
middle room of the three.

Luxury shone at his startled gaze. The floor
was a marvel, a darkly gleaming, gemlike design.
The walls toned in with an amazingly rich-looking,
though quiet, panel effect. There was a couch
just across from the door, two chairs, three
cabinets and several intricately carved shelves
with fine-looking objects standing on them.

The first thing Drake saw, as he climbed in, was
the girl’s basket standing against the wall just
to the left of the door.

The sight stopped him short. He sat in the
doorway, then, his legs dangling toward the
ground. His nervousness yielded to the continu-
ing silence, and he began with a gathering
curiosity to examine the contents of the basket.

There were about a dozen of the magic pens, at
least three dozen of the folding, self-filling cups,
a dozen, roundish black objects that refused to
respond to his handling — and three pairs of
pince-nez.

Each pair had a tiny, transparent wheel at-
tached to the side of the right lens; and they
simply lay there. They seemed to have no cases;
there seemed to be no fear that they would break.
The pair he tried on fitted snugly over his nose,
and for a moment he actually thought they fitted
his eyes.

Then he noticed the difference. Everything

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was nearer — the room, his hand — not magnified or
blurred, but it was as if he was staring through
mildly powered field glasses.

There was no strain on his eyes; and, after a
moment, he grew conscious again of the little
wheel. It turned — quite easily.

Instantly, things were nearer, the field-glass
effect twice as strong. Trembling a little, he be-
gan to turn the wheel, first one way, then the
other.

A few seconds only were needed to verify the
remarkable reality. He had on a pair of pince-nez
with adjustable lens, an incredible combination
telescope-microscope — super glasses.

Blankly, Drake returned the marvelous things
to the basket, and, with abrupt decision, climbed
into the trailer, and moved toward the entrance
of the back room.

His intention was to peer in only. But that
first look showed the entire wall fitted with
shelves, each neatly loaded with a variety of small
goods.

Utterly curious, Drake picked up what looked
like a camera. It was fine little affair. He was
peering into the lens when his fingers pressed
something that gave. There was a click. In-
stantly, a glistening card came out of a slit in the
back.

The picture was the upper part of a man’s face.
It had remarkable depth and an amazing natural
color effect. It was the intent expression in the
brown eyes that momentarily made the features
strange, unfamiliar. Then he recognized that he
was looking at himself. His picture, instantly
developed —

It was all he needed. Chilled in spite of him-
self, Drake stuffed the picture in his pocket, set
the instrument down — and, trembling, climbed
out of the trailer, and walked off down the road
toward the village.

“ — and then,” said Jimmy, “a minute later you
came back, and climbed in and shut the door and
went into the back room. You came back so fast
that you nearly saw me ; I thought you'd gone.
And then — ”

The trailer door opened. A girl’s voice said
something urgent that Drake didn’t catch. The
next instant, a man answered with a grunt. The
door closed; and there was moving and breathing
in the center room.

Crouching. Drake drew back against the left
wall —

“ — and that’s all, mister,” Jimmy finished. “I
thought there was going to be trouble then. And
I hiked for home to tell mom.”

“You mean,” Drake protested, “I was foolish

enough to come back, just in time to get myself
caught, and I didn’t dare show myself?”

The boy shrugged. ‘‘You were pressing up
against the partition — that’s all I could see.”

‘‘And they didn’t look in that room while you
were watching?”

Jimmy hesitated. “Well,” he began finally in a
curious, defensive tone, “what happened then was
kind of queer. You see, I looked back when I'd
gone about a hundred yards — and the trailer and
truck wasn’t there no more.”

“Wasn’t there !” Drake spoke slowly. He had a
sense of unreality. “You mean, they started up
the truck engine, and drove to Piffer’s Road, and
so on down to the highway?”

The boy shook his head stubbornly. “Polks is
always tryin’ to trip me up on that. But I know
what I saw and heard. There weren’t no sound of
an engine. They just was gone suddenly, that's
all.”

Drake felt an eerie chill along his spine. “And
I was aboard?” he asked.

“You were aboard,” said Jimmy.

The spasm of silence that followed was broken
by the woman saying loudly; “All right, Jimmy,
you can go and play.”

She turned back to Drake; “Do you know what
I think?” she said.

With an effort, Drake roused himself. It wasn’t
that he had been thinking. Actually, there was
a blankness in hts mind that —

“What?” he said.

“They’re working a racket, the whole bunch of
them together. The story about her father making
the stuff. I can’t understand how we fell for that.
He just spent his time going around the district
buying up old metal.

“Mind you” — the admission came almost re-
luctantly — “they’ve got some wonderful things.
The government isn’t kidding when it says that
after this war we’re going to live like kings and
queens. But there’s the rub. So far, these people
have only got hold of a few hundred pieces al-
together. What they do is sell them in one dis-
trict, then steal everything back, and resell in
another.”

In spite of his intense self-absorption, Drake
stared at her. He had run across the peculiar logic
of fuzzy-minded people before, but it always
shocked him when facts were so brazenly ignored
in order that a crackpot theory might hold water.
He said :

“I don’t see where the profit comes in. What
about the dollar you got back for each item that
was stolen?”

“Oh!” said the woman. Her face lengthened,
then she looked startled, and then, as she grasped
how absolutely her pet idea was wrecked, an angry
flush suffused her wind and sun-tanned face.

ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION

“Some publicity scheme maybe!" she snapped.

It struck Drake that it was time to terminate
the interview. He said hastily: “Is anybody you
know going into Inchney tonight? I’d like a ride
if I could get it.”

The change of subject did its work. The high
color faded from the woman’s cheeks. She said
thoughtfully:

“Nope, no one I know of. But don’t worry.
Just get on the highway, and you’ll get a lift — ”
The second car picked him up. He sat in the
hotel, as darkness fell, thinking:

“A girl and her father with a carload of the
finest manufactured goods in the world. She sells
them as souvenirs, one to a person. He buys old
metal. And then, as added insanity, an old man
goes around buying up the goods sold” — he
thought of Kellie’s pen— “or breaking them.”
Finally, there was the curious amnesia of a
fountain pen salesman, named Drake. It —

Somewhere behind Drake, a man’s voice cried
out in anguish: “Oh, look what you’ve done now.
You’re broken it.”

A quiet, mature, resonant voice answered: “I

beg your pardon. You paid a dollar for it, you
say? I shall pay for the loss, naturally. Here —
and you have my regrets.’’

In the silence that followed, Drake stood up and
turned. He saw a tall, splendid-looking man with
gray hair, in the act of rising from beside a
younger chap, who was staring at the two pieces of
a broken pen in his fingers.

The old man headed for the revolving door
leading to the street, but it was Drake who got
there first, Drake who said quietly but curtly :
“One minute, please. I want an explanation of
what happened to me after I got into the trailer
of the girl, Selanie, and her father. And I think
you're the man to give it to me. I — ”

He stopped. He was staring into eyes that were
like pools of gray fire, eyes that seemed literally
to tear into his face, and to peer with undiminished
intensity at the inside of his brain. Drake had
time for a brief, startled memory of what Kellie
had said about the way this man had outfaced them
on the train with one deadly look — and then it was
too late for further thought.

With an utterly, unoldmanish, a tigerish speed,
the other stepped forward, and caught Drake’s
wrist. There was the feel of metal in that touch,
metal that sent a tingling glow along Drake’s arm,
as the old man said in a low, compelling voice:
“This way — to my car.”

Barely, Drake remembered getting into a long,
gleamy-hooded car. The rest was darkness —
mental — physical—

He was lying on his back on a hard floor. Drake
opened his eyes, and for a blank moment stared at

a domed ceiling two hundred feet above him.
The ceiling was at least three hundred feet wide,
and nearly a quarter of it was window, through
which a gray-white mist of light showed, as if an
invisible sun was trying hard to penetrate a thin
but persistent fog.

The wide strip of window ran along the center
of the ceiling straight on into the distance. It —

Into the distance!

With a gasp, Drake jerked erect. For a moment
then his mind threatened to ooze out of his head.

There was no end to that corridor.

It stretched in either direction until it became
a blur of gray marble and gray light. There was
a balcony and a gallery and a second gallery, each
floor had its own side corridor set off by a railing;
and there were countless shining doors and, every
little while, a branch corridor, each suggesting
other vast reaches of that visibly monstrous
building.

Very slowly, the first enormous shock over,
Drake climbed to his feet. Memory of the old
man — and what had gone before — ^was a weight in
his mind. He thought darkly; “He got me into
his car — and drove me here. Only — ”

Only, on all the wide surface of the Earth, no
such building existed.

A chill percolated up his spine. It cost him a
distinct effort to walk toward the nearest of the
long line of tall, carved doors, and pull it open.

What he expected, he couldn’t have told. But
his first reaction was — disappointment.

It was an office, a large room with plain walls.
There were some fine-looking cabinets along one
wall. A great desk occupied the corner facing
the door. Some chairs and two comfortable-
looking settees and another, more ornate door
completed the picture.

No one was in the room. The desk looked spic
and span, dustless. And lifeless.

The second door was locked, or else the latch
was too complicated.

Out in the corridor again, Drake grew conscious
of the intense silence. His shoes clicked with an
empty sound — and door after door yielded the
same office-furnished but uninhabited interior.

An hour passed by his watch. And then another
half-hour. And then — he saw the door in the
distance.

At first it was only a brightness. It took on
glittering contours, became an enormous glass
affair set in a framework of multitinted windows.

The door was easily fifty feet in height; and
v/hen he peered through its transparent panes,
he could see great white steps leading down into
a mist that thickened after about twenty feet, so
that the lower steps were not visible.

Drake stared uneasily. There was something

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wrong here. That mist, obscuring everything, per-
sisting for hours, clinging darkly —

He shook himself. Probably, there was water
down there at the foot of the steps, warmish water
subjected to a constant stream of cold air. and
thick fog formed—

For a moment, he pictured that in his mind— -a
building ten miles long standing beside a lake,
and buried forever in gray mists.

"Get out of here,” he thought sharply, "get out!”

The latch of the door was at a normal height.
But it seemed impossible that he would be able
to maneuver the gigantic structure with such a
comparatively tiny leverage. It —

It opened lightly, gently, like a superbly bal-
anced machine. Drake stepped out into the press-
ing fog and began, swiftly at first, and then with
a developing caution, to go down the steps. No
use landing up in a pool of deep water.

The hundredth step was the last; and there
was no water. There was nothing except mists,
no foundations for the steps, no ground — nothing!

On hands and knees, dizzy with a sudden ver-
tigo, Drake crawled back up the steps. He was so
weak that inches only seemed to recede behind
him. The nightmarish feeling came that the
steps were going to crumble under him, now that
he had discovered that their base was — nothing.

A second, greater fear came that the door would
not open from the outside, and cut him off here
on the edge of eternity forever.

But it did open. It took all the strength of his
weakened body. He lay on the floor inside, and
after a while the awful wonder came to his mind:
What did a girl called Selanie, dispensing mar-
velous gadgets on a train, have to do with this?

There seemed no answer.

His funk yielded to the sense of safety produced
by the passing minutes. He stood up, ashamed
of his terror, and his mind grooving to a purpose.

The fantastic place must be explored from cellar
to roof. Somewhere, there would be a cache of
the cups that created their own water. And per-
haps also there would be food. Soon, he would
have to eat and drink.

First, to one of the offices. Examine every
cabinet, break open the desk drawers, search —

It wasn’t necessary to break anything. The
drawers opened at the slightest tug. The cabinet
doors were unlocked.

Inside were journals, ledgers, curious-looking
files. Absorbed, Drake glanced blurrily through
several that he had spread out on the great desk,
blurrily because his hands were shaking, and his
brain couldn’t penetrate for a second at a time.

Finally, with an effort of will, he pushed every-
thing aside but one of the journals. This he

opened at random, and read the words printed
there:

SYNOPSIS OF REPORT OF POSSESSOR
KINGSTON CRAIG IN THE MATTER
OF THE EMPIRE OF LYCEUS II

A. D. 27,346—27,378

Frowning, Drake stared at the date; then he
read on:

The normal history o£ the period is a tale of cunning
usurpation of power by a ruthless ruler. A careful study
of the man revealed an unnatural urge to protect himself
at the expense of others.

TEMPORARY SOLUTION: A warning to the Em-
peror, who nearly collapsed when be realized that he
was confronted by a Possessor. His instinct for self-
preservation impelled him to give guarantees as to
future conduct.

COMMENT: This solution produced a probability

world Type 5, and roust be considered temporary be-
cause of the very involved permanent work that Profes-
sor Terran Link is doing on the fringes of the entire
two hundred seventy-third century.

CONCLUSION: Returned to the Palace of Immor-
twlity after an absence of three days.

Drake sat there, stiffly at first, then he leaned
back in his chair; but the same blank impression
remained in his mind. Quite simply, there was
nothing to think.

At last, he turned a leaf, and read:

SYNOPSIS OF REPORT OF POSSESSOR
KINGSTON CRAIG

This is the case of Lairn Graynon, Police Inspector,
900th Sector Station, New York City, who on July 7,
2630 A. D. was falsely convicted of accepting bribes, and
ile-energized.

SOLUTION : Obtained the retirement of Inspector

Graynon two months before the date given in the charge.
He retired to his farm, and henceforth exerted the very
minimum of influence on the larger scene of existence.
He lived in this probability world of his own until his
death in 2874, and thus provided an almost perfect 290A.

CONCLUSION: Returned to the Palace of Immor-
tality after one hour. r

There were more entries, hundreds — thousands
altogether in the several journals. Each one was
a “REPORT OF POSSESSOR KINGSTON
CRAIG,” and always he returned to the "Palace
of Immortality” after so many days, or hours or—
weeks. Once it was three months, and that was
an obscure, impersonal affair that dealt with "the
establishment of the time of demarcation between
the ninety-eighth and ninety-ninth centuries — ”
and involved "the resurrection into active, per-
sonal probability worlds of their own of three
murdered men, named — ”

The sharpening pangs of thirst and hunger
brought to Drake a picture of himself sitting in

ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION

this iramense and terrible building, reading the
fanciful scrawlings of a man who must be mad.

It struck him that the seemingly sourceless light
of the room was growing dimmer. The light must
come in some way from outside and—

Out in the vast, empty corridor, he realized the
truth. The mists above the ceiling window were
graying, darkening. Night was falling.

He tried not to think of that — of being alone in
this tomblike building, watching the gloom creep
over the gray marble — wondering what things
might come out of hiding once the darkness grew
impenetrable and —

“Stop it, you fool!” Drake said aloud, savagely.

His voice sounded hollow against the silence,
and scared a thought into his shuddering brain:

There must be a place here where these — Pos-
sessors — had lived. This floor was all offlces. but
the next — stairway — find a stairway. He had seen
none on the main corridor, so —

It was as simple as that. Fifty feet along the
first side corridor was a broad staircase. Drake
bounded up the steps and tried the first door he
came to.

The door opened into the living room of a
magnificent apartment. There were seven rooms,
including a kitchen that gleamed in the dimming
light, and the built-in cupboards of which were
packed with transparent containers; the contents
were foods both familiar and strange.

Drake felt without emotion, not even a tremor
or surprise touched him as he manipulated a tiny
lever at the top of a can of pears, and the fruit
simply spilled out onto the table — although the
bottle had not opened in any way.

He saw to it that he had a dish for the next
attempt; that was all. Later, after he had eaten,
he searched for light switches. But it was be-
coming too dark to see.

The main bedroom had a canopied bed that
loomed in the darkness, and there were pajamas
in a drawer.

body heavy with approaching sleep, Drake thought
vaguely :

That girl Selanie and her fear of the old man —
why had she been afraid? And what could have
happened in the trailer that had irrevocably pre-
cipitated Ralph Carson Drake into — this?

Drake slept with the thought still in his mind,
uneasily—

The light was far away at first. It came nearer,
grew brighter, and at first it was like any awaken-
ing. Then, just as Drake opened his eyes, memory
flooded his mind.

He was lying, he saw tensely, on his left side:
and it was broad daylight. From the corners of
his eyes he could see, above him, the silvery-blue
canopy of the bed, and beyond it. far above, the
high ceiling.

Realization came that in the shadows of the
previous evening he had scarcely noticed how
big and roomy and — luxurious — his quarters were.

There were thick, shining rugs and paneled
walls and rose-colored furniture that glowed with
costly beauty. The bed was an oversize four-
poster affair and —

Drake's thought suffered a dreadful pause be-
cause, in turning his head away from the left part
of the room toward the right, his gaze fell for the
first time on the other half of the bed.

A young woman lay there, fast asleep.

She had dark-brown hair, a snow-white throat,
and, even in repose, her face looked fine and in-
telligent. She appeared to be about thirty years
old.

Drake’s examination got no further. Like a
thief in the night, he slid from under the quilt.
He reached the floor and crouched there holding
hts breath in a desperate dismay because —

The steady breathing from the bed had stopped.

THE SEARCH

There was the sound of a woman sighing, and
finally — doom!

“My dear,” said a rich contralto voice, lazily,
“what on earth are you doing on the floor?”

There was movement on the bed, and Drake
cringed in awful anticipation of the scream that
would greet the discovery that he was not the
my dear.

But nothing happened. The lovely head came
over the edge of the bed; gray eyes stared at him
tranquilly. The young woman seemed to have
forgotten her first question, for she said:

“Darling, are you scheduled to go to Earth
today?”

That got him. The question itself was so
stupendous that his personal relation to — every-
thing — seemed secondary. Besides — dim under-
standing was coming.

This was one of those worlds of probability that
he had read about in the journals of Possessor
Kingston Craig. Here simply and tremendously
was something that could happen to Ralph Drake.
And somewhere behind the scenes someone was
making it happen.

All because he had gone in search of his memory.

the crushing weight of a fact that transcended
every reality of his existence. Going to Earth —
from where?

The answer was a crazy thing that sighed at
last wearily through his mind; From the Palace
of Immortality, of course, the palace in the mists,
where the Possessors lived.

He reached the bathroom. The night before, he
had discovered in its darkening interior a trans-
parent jar of salve, the label of which said :
BEARD REMOVER— RUB ON, THEN WASH
OFF.

It took half a minute — the rest five minutes
longer.

He came out of the bathroom, fully dressed.
His mind was like a stone in his head, and like
a stone sinking through water he started for the
door near the bed.

“Darling !”

“Yes!” Cold and stiff, Drake turned. In a
spasm of relief, he saw that she was not looking
at him. Instead she had one of the magic pens
and was frowning over some figures in a big
ledger. Without looking up, she said:

“Our time-relation to each other is becoming

Drake stood up. He was perspiring, his heart
was beating like a trip hammer, his knees trembled
and there wasn’t a calm thought in his head. But
he stood up, and he said:

“Yes, I’m going to Earth.”

It gave him purpose, he thought tensely, reason
to get out of here as fast as he possibly could
and —

He was heading for the chair on which were
his clothes when the import of his own words
provided the second and greater shock to his
badly staggered nerves.

Going to Earth! He felt his brain sag before

worse. You’ll have to stay more at the palace,
reversing your age, while I go to Earth and add
a few years to mine. Will you make the arrange-
ments for that, dear?”

“Yes,” said Drake, “yes!”

There was nothing else. He walked into the
little hallway, then into the living room; and
then — out in the corridor at last, he leaned against
the cool, smooth marble wall, thinking hopelessly:
Reverse his age I So that was what this in-
credible building did! Every day here you were
a day younger, and it was necessary to — go — ^to
Earth to strike a balance.

The shock grew. And there was no longer any
question: What had happened to him on the

trailer was so important that a gigantic super-
human organization was striving with every ounce
of power to prevent him from learning the truth.

Beyond all doubt, today he would really have
to find out what all this was about, explore every

ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION

floor, try to locate some kind of central ofRce
and —

He was relaxing slowly, withdrawing out of
that intense inward concentration of his mind
when, for the first time, awareness came of —
sounds. Voices, movements, people — below.

Even as he leaped for the balcony balustrade,
the shattering realization came to Drake that he
should have known it. The woman there in the
bed — where she hadn’t been — had implied a world
complete in every detail of life.

Shock came, anyway. With frantic eyes, he
stared down at the great main corridor of the
building, along the silent, deserted reaches of
which he had wandered for so many hours the
day before.

Silent and deserted no longer. Men and women
swarmed along it in a steady stream. It was like
a city street, with people moving in both direc-
tions, all in a hurry, all bent on some private
errand, all —

“Hello, Drake!” said a young man’s voice behind
him.

Curiously, Drake had no emotion left for that.

He turned slowly, like a tired man. The stranger
who stood there regarding him was tall and well-
proportioned, He had dark hair and a full, strong
face. He wore a shapely one-piece suit, pleasingly
form-fitting above the waist; the trouser part
puffed out like breeches. He was smiling in a
friendly, quizzical fashion. He said finally, coolly:

“So you’d like to know what it's all about. Don’t
worry, you will. But first try on this glove, and
come with me. My name is Price, by the way.”

Drake stared at the extended glove. “What — ”
he began blankly.

He stopped. His mind narrowed around the
conviction that he was being rushed along too
fast for understanding. This man waiting for him
here at the door and —

Drake braced himself consciously. Take it easy,
he thought sharply.

The overwhelmingly important thing was that
they were out in the open at last. But — this glove!

He accepted the thing, frowning. It was for his
right hand; and it fitted perfectly. It was light
in weight, flexible but it seemed unnaturally thick.
The outer surface had a faint metallic sheen.

“Just grab his right shoulder with that glove
from behind," Price was saying. “Press below the
collarbone with the points of your fingers, press
hard — I'll give you an illustration later. Any ques-
tions?”

“Any questions!" The explosion of sound hurt
Drake’s throat. He swallowed hard. Before he
could speak. Price said:

“I'll tell you as we go along. Be careful on
those stairs.”

Drake caught his mind and body into a tight

unit. He said roughly: “What’s all this nonsense
about grabbing somebody by the shoulder?
W^hy — ”

He stopped hopelessly. It was all wrong, the
way this was going. He was like a blind man
being given fragments of information about a
world he couldn't see. There was no beginning,
no coherence, nothing but these blurry half-facts.

He’d have to get back to fundamentals. He.
Drake, was a man in search of his memory. Some-
thing had happened to him aboard a trailer, and
everything else had followed as the night the
day. Keep that in mind and —

“Damn you!” Drake said out of the anguish of
his bewilderment. “Damn you. Price. I want to
know what this is all about.”

“Don’t get excited.” They were down the steps
now, heading along the side corridor to the great
main hallway. Price half turned as he spoke. “I
know just how you feel, Drake, but you must see
that your brain can't be overloaded in one sus-
tained assault of information. Yesterday, you
found this place deserted. Well, that wasn’t ex-
actly yesterday.”

He shrugged. “You see how it is. That was
today in the alternative world to this one. That
is how this building will be forever if you don’t
do what we want. We had to show you that,
And now, for Heaven’s sake, don’t ask me to ex-
plain the science and theory of time-probability.”
“Look," said Drake desperately, “let’s forget
everything else, and concentrate on one fact. You
want me to do something with this glove. What?
Where? When? Why? I assure you I’m feeling
quite reasonable. I — ”

His voice faded. With a start, he grew aware
that Price and he were in the main corridor, head-
ing straight for the great doorway, which led to
the steps and the misty nothingness beyond them.

The clammy feeling that came then brought a
genuine chill to his whole body. Drake said
sharply :

“Where are you going?”

“I’m taking you to Earth.”

"Out that door?”

Drake stopped short. He wasn’t sure just what
he felt, but his voice sounded preternaturally
sharp and tense in his ears.

He saw that Price had stopped. The man was
looking at him steadily. Price said earnestly:
“There’s nothing strange about any of this,
really. The Palace of Immortality was built in
an eddy of time, the only known Reverse, or Im-
mortality, Drift in the Earth Time Stream. It
has made the work of the Possessors possible, a
good work as you know from your reading in
Possessor Kingston Craig's office — ”

His voice went on, explaining, persuading: but
it was curiously hard for Drake to concentrate on

THE SEARCH

his words. That mist bothered him. Co down
those steps with anyone — Never!

It was the word, Possessors, that brought Drake's
mind and body back into active operation. He
had seen and heard the word so often that, for all
these long minutes, he had forgotten that he
knew nothing.

He heard himself asking the question, his voice
shrill and demanding: “But who are the Pos-

sessors? What do they possess?”

The man looked at him, dark eyes thoughtful.
“They possess,” he said finally, “the most unique
ability ever to distinguish men and women from
their fellows. They can go through time at will.

“There are,” Price went on, “about three thou-
sand of them. They were all born over a period
of five hundred years beginning in the twentieth
century; the strangest thing of all is that every
one of them originated in a single, small district
of the United States, around the towns of Kissling,
Inchney and particularly in an infinitesimal farm-
ing community called Piffer’s Road.”

“But that,” Drake said through dry lips, “is
where I was born.” His eyes widened. “And
that’s where the trailer — ”

Price seemed not to have heard. “Physically,”
he said, "the Possessors are also unique. Every
one of them has the organs of his or her body the
opposite to that of a normal human being. That
is, the heart is on the right side and — ”

“But I’m like that,” Drake gasped. His mind
was taking great leaps, pounding at the bony walls
of his head, trying to get out. “That’s why the
draft board rejected me. They said they couldn’t
take the risk of my getting wounded, because the
surgeon wouldn’t know my case history. They — ”
Behind Drake, footsteps clicked briskly. He
turned automatically, and stared vaguely at the
woman in a fluffy gorgeous dressing gown who
was walking toward them.

She smiled as she saw him, the smile he had
already seen in the bedroom. She said in her
rich voice, as she came up :

“Poor fellow! He looks positively ill. Well.
I did my best to make the shock easy for him. I
gave him as much information as 1 could without
letting on that I knew everything.”

Price said: “Oh, he’s all right.” He turned to
Drake. There was a faint smile on his face, as if
he was appreciating the situation to the full.
“Drake, I want you to meet your wife, formerly
Selanie Johns, who will now tell you what hap-

pened to you when you climbed aboard her
father’s trailer at Piffer’s Road. Go ahead,
Selanie.”

Drake stood there. He felt like a clod of wood,
empty of emotion and of thought. It was only
slowly that he grew aware of her voice telling the
story of the trailer.

Standing there in the back room of the trailer,
Drake wondered what might happen even now if
he should be caught red-handed before he could
act. He heard the man in the center room say.

“We’ll head for the fourteenth century. They
don't dare do much monkeying around in this
millennium.”

He chuckled grimly: “You’ll notice that it was
an old man they sent, and only one of them at
that. Somebody had to go out and spend thirty or
forty years growing old, because old men have so
much less influence on an environment than young.

“But we’d better waste no time. Give me those
transformer points, and go into the cab and start
the atomic transformers.”

It was the moment Drake had been waiting for.
He stepped out softly, flexing his gloved right
hand. He saw the man standing, facing in the
direction of the door that led to the front room
and the engine cab beyond it.

From the back, the man looked of stocky build,
and about forty-five years of age. In his hands,
clutched tight, he held two transparent cones that
glowed with a dull light.

“All right,” he called gruffly as Drake stepped
up behind him. “We’re moving — and hereafter,
Selanie, don’t be so frightened. The Possessors
are through, damn them. I’m sure our sale of that
stuff, and the removal of so much metal has in-
terfered with the electronic balances that made
their existence possible."

His voice shook, “When I think of the almighty
sacrilege of that outfit, acting like God, daring to
use their powers to change the natural course of
existence instead of, as I suggested, making it a
means of historical research and — ”

His voice collapsed into a startled grunt, as
Drake grabbed his shoulder, and pressed hard
below the collarbone —

" — just a minute!” Drake’s voice cut piercingly
across the woman’s story. “You talk as if I bad
a glove like this” — he raised his right hand with
its faintly gleaming glove, that Price had given
him — “and there’s also a suggestion in your words

’^--ADAM HAT

(Sift dtrlHirate

THE /D£Al GIFT FOH THE HOLIDAYS

ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION

that I know everything about the Possessors and
the Palace o£ Immortality. You’re perfectly aware
that I knew nothing at that time.

“I had just come off a train, where a fountain
pen had been brought to my attention by a sales-
man called Bill Kellie. I — ”

He saw that the woman was looking at him
gravely. She said : “I’m sure you will understand
in a few minutes. Everything that we’ve done
has been designed to lead up this moment. Only a
few hours of existence remains to this probability
world — this one, where Mr. Price and you and I
are standing: there is a strange balance of forces
involved, and, paradoxical as it may seem, we are
actually working against time.”

Drake stared at her, startled by her tone, as she
said urgently: “Let me go on, please — ”

The stocky man stood utterly still, like a man
who has been stunned by an intolerable blow.
And then, as Drake let go his shoulder, he turned
slowly, and his gaze fastened sickly, not on
Drake’s face, but on the glove he wore.

“A Destroyer glove!” he whispered; then more
wildly; “But how? The repellors are on my
special invention that prevents a trained Possessor
coming near me!"

He looked for the first time at Drake’s face.
“How did you do it? I — ”

“Father!” It was the girl's voice, clear and
startled, from the engine cab. Her voice came
nearer. “Father, we’ve stopped at about 1650 A. D.
What’s happened? I thought-—”

She paused in the doorway like a startled bird,
a tall, slim girl of around nineteen years — looking
suddenly older, grayer, as she saw Drake.

“You . . . were on . . . the . . . train!" she said.
Her gaze fluttered to her father. She gasped;
"Dad, he hasn’t — ”

The stocky man nodded hopelessly. “He's de-
stroyed my power to go through time. Wherever
we are in time and space, we’re there. Not that
that matters. The thing is — we’ve failed. The
Possessors live on to do their work.”

The girl said nothing; the two of them seemed
totally to have forgotten Drake. The man caught
her arm, said hoarsely:

“Don’t you understand — we’ve failed."

Still she was silent. Her face had a bleached
quality when she answered finally :

“Father, this is the hardest thing I’ve ever said,
but — I'm glad. They’re in the right; you're wrong.
They’re trying to do something about the terrible
mistakes of Man and Nature. They’ve made a
marvelous science of their great gift, and they
use it like beneficient gods.

“It was easy enough for you to convince me
when I was a child, but for years now my doubts
have bean gathering. I stayed with you through
loyalty, I’m sorry, father.”

She turned. There were tears in her eyes, as
she opened the outer door, and jumped to the
green ground below.

Drake stood for a moment, fascinated by the
panorama of emotions on the man’s face, first a
quiver of self-pity, then a gathering over-all ex-
pression of obstinacy. A spoiled child couldn’t
have provided a more enlightening picture of
frustrated egoism.

One long look Drake took; and then he, too.
went to the door. There was the girl to make
friends with, and an early western American world
to explore and wonder at.

They were thrown into each other's company by
the stubborn silence into which the older man re-
treated. They walked often along the green, un-
inhabited valley, Drake and the girl.

Once, a group of Indians on foot confronted
the two of them far from the trailer; to Drake it
was a question as to who was the more startled.
It was Selanie who had her atomic gun out first.

She fired at a stone. It puffed out of sight in
a flare of brilliance; and no more Indians ever
came that way.

In a way, it was an idyllic life; and love came
as easily as the winds that blew mournfully across
that lonely land. Came especially easily because
he knew — and persisted against her early coldness.

After that, they talked more urgently of per-
suading a self-willed man to train one or the
other, or both, of them, how to use their innate
ability to travel in time. Drake knew that the
man would give in eventually from sheer loneli-
ness, but it took a year longer.

Drake’s mind drew slowly back into the great
domed palace, and consciousness came that the
woman’s voice had stopped. He stared at her,
then at Price. He said finally, puzzled :

“Is that all? Your , . . father — ” He looked
at the woman, stumbling over the relationship.
It was immensely difficult to connect this mature
woman with —

He pressed on: “You mean, your father was

opposed to the work done by the Possessors and— -
But how did he expect to eliminate them? J don’t
get it.”

It was Price who answered: “Mr. Johns’ plan

was to divert the local activity that had helped
to create the Possessors. We know that foods
definitely played a vital part, but just what com-
bination of foods and other habits was the root
cause, we have never learned.

“Mr. Johns thought by having people drink
from his cups, use his other food devices and
general articles, he w'ould break the general pat-
tern of existence away from what it would nor-
mally have followed.

THE SEARCH

“His gathering of metal was also planned. Metal
has a very strong influence on the great Time
Stream. Its sudden removal from one time to
another can upset entire worlds of probability.

“As for us, we could not interfere, except as
you saw. The world prior to the twenty-fifth
century is one age where no work will ever be
done by the Possessors. It must solve its own
problems. Even you, one of the first to possess
the gift of time travel, though you would never
of yourself have learned the method, had to be
allowed to move toward your destiny— almost
naturally.”

“Look.” said Drake, “either I’m crazy or you
are. I’m willing to accept everything — the ex-
istence of this Palace of Immortality, the fact
that she’s my wife in some future date, and that
I’ve sort of dropped in on her before 1 married her.
but aiter she married me.

“I’ll accept all that, I say but — you gave me
this glove a little while ago, and you said you
wanted me to do something with it, and a few
minutes ago my . . . wife . . . said that this world
was in hourly danger of being wiped out. Is there
something else that you haven’t told me about?
And why that spell of amnesia?”

Price cut him off : “Your part in all this is really
very simple. As a salesman of the Quik^Rite Co.,
you followed Selanie, who was then nineteen years
old, to a trailer at Piffer’s Road occupied by her
father and herself.

“When you got there, she wasn’t to be found,
nor was anyone else, so you started back to the
village to make inquiries. On the way, however,
you were picked up by Possessor Drail McMahon
and transported one week ahead in time, and all
relevant memory was drained from you. You wak-
ened in the hospital and — ”

“Just a. minute!” Drake protested. “My . . .
wife . . . has just told me what else I did. I knew
that before, of course. There was an eyewitness,
a boy named Jimmy, who saw me go back to the
trailer, and that I was on it when it disappeared.”

“Let me tell this,” Price said coolly. “From the
hospital, you set out to find what had happened
to you. You did find out, and then you were
transported here by another Possessor, and here
you are.”

Drake looked at the man, then at the woman;
she nodded, and the first flame was already burning
in his mind as Price continued:

“In a few moments, I shall take you to Earth
to the vicinity of the trailer of Peter Johns and
his daughter. You will go aboard, conceal your-
self in the back room and at the moment that
Selanie has described to you, you will come out
and grab her father by the shoulder with the
glove.

“The glove produces energy that will subtly
change the potential of his nerve force; it will
not harm him — nor will we afterward. As a
matter of fact, he will be used as a research agent
by us — afterward.”

Price finished simply : “You can see that this
action requires free will, and that we had to do
everything as we have, to make sure that you
would make no mistake.”

Drake said : “I can see a lot of things.”

He felt himself completely calm except for the
way his soul was expanding with the tremendous-
ness of what was here. Slowly, he walked over to
the woman, took her hand and gazed steadily into
her eyes. He said:

“This is you — when?”

"Fifty years from now in your life.”

“And where am I? Where is your husband?”
“You went to Earth, into the future. You had
to be out of the way. The same body cannot be
in the same space. And that reminds me; that is
the one hold we have on you.”

“How?”

“If instead of entering the trailer, you walked
off down the road to resume your life, in one week
you would reach the time where your earlier self
was in the hospital. You would vanish, disin-
tegrate.”

Drake said: “I like your looks. I don’t think
I’m going to muff it.”

Looking back, he could see her, as he walked
down the steps into the thickening folds of mist.
She was standing with her face pressed against
the glass of the door.

The mists swallowed her.

His memory search was over. He was about to
live the events he thought he had forgotten.

THE END.

m BUT BIBERBREAD EE

By Henry Kiittaer

• A stnry nf a rhyme, of perfect rhythm, ami the romplete disruption
of military machinery by a nursery jingle that cuuM not be forgotten.

Hlustrated by M, Isis

The only way to make people believe this story
is to write it in German. And there’s no point
in doing that, for the German-speaking world is
already starting to worry about gingerbread left.

I speak figuratively. It's safer. Very likely
Rutherford, whose interests are equally divided
between semantics and Basin Street, could create
an English equivalent of gingerbread left, God
forbid. As it is, the song, with its reduedo ad
absurdum of rhythm and sense, is meaningless in
translation. Try translating Jabberwocky into
German. So what?

The song, as Rutherford wrote it in German,
had nothing to do with gingerbread, but, since the
original is obviously unavailable, I’m substituting
the closest thing to it that exists in English. It’s
lacking in that certain compelling perfection on
which Rutherford worked for months, but it’ll
give you an idea.

We’ll start, I suppose, with the night Ruther-
ford threw a shoe at his son. He had reason.
Phil Rutherford was in charge of semantics at
the University, and he was battling a hangover
and trying to correct papers at the same time.
Physical disabilities had kept him out of the
army, and he was brooding over that, wondering
if he should gulp some more Sherman units of
thiamin, and hating his students. The papers
they had handed in were no good. For the most
part, they smelled. Rutherford had an almost
illicit love for words, and it distressed him to
see them kicked around thus. As Humpty Dumpty
had said, the question was which was to be the
master.

Usually it wasn’t the students. Jerry O’Brien
had a good paper, though, and Rutherford went
over it carefully, pencil in hand. The radio in
the living room didn’t bother him: the door was
closed, anyhow. But, abruptly, the radio stopped.

“Hi,” said Rutherford’s thirteen-year-oId son,
poking his untidy head across the threshold.
There was an ink smudge on the end of the
youth’s nose. “Hi, pop. Finished my homework.
Can I go to the show?”

“It's too late," Rutherford said, glancing at his
wrist watch. “Sorry. But you’ve an early class
tomorrow."

“Nom d’un plume/’ Bill murmured. He was
discovering French.

“Out. I’ve got work to do. Go listen to the
radio.”

“They make with corn tonight. Oh, well — ”
Bill retreated, leaving the door ajar. From the
other room came confused, muffled sounds.
Rutherford returned to his work.

He became aware, presently, that Bill was re-
peating a monotonous, rhythmic string of phrases.
Automatically Rutherford caught himself listen-
ing, straining to catch the words. When he did.
they were meaningless — the familiar catch phrases
of kids.

“Ibbety zibbety zibbety zam — ”

It occurred to Rutherford that he had been
hearing this for some time, the mystic doggerel
formula for choosing sides — “and out goes you!”
One of those things that stick in your mind rather
irritatingly.

“Ibbety zibbety — ’’ Bill kept chanting, it in an
absent-minded monotone, and Rutherford got up
to close the door. It didn’t quite stop. He could
still hear just enough of the rhythmic noises to
start his mind moving in a similar rhythm. Ibbety
zibbety — the hell with it.

After a while Rutherford discovered that his
lips were moving silently, and he shoved the
papers back on his desk, muttering darkly. He
was tired, that was it. And correcting exams re-
quired concentration. He was glad when the bell
rang.

It was Jerry O’Brien, his honor student. Jerry
was a tall, thin, dark boy with a passion for the
same low-down music that attracted Rutherford.
Now he came in grinning.

“Hi, prof," he greeted the older man, “I’m in.
Just got my papers today.”

“Swell. Sit down and tell me.”

There wasn’t much to tell, but it lasted quite a

while. Bill hung around, listening avidly. Ruth-
erford swung to glare at his son.

“Lay off that ibbety-zibbety stuff, will you?”
“Huh? Oh, sure. I didn’t know I was — ”
“For days he’s been at it,” Rutherford said
glumly. "I can hear it in my sleep.”

“Shouldn't bother a semanticist.”

“Papers. Suppose I’d been doing important
precision work. I mean really important. A
string of words like that gets inside your head
and you can’t get it out.”

“Especially if you’re under any strain, or if
you’re concentrating a lot. Distracts your atten-
tion. doesn't it?”

“It doesnt bother me,’* Bill said.

Rutherford grunted. “Wait’ll you’re older and
really have to concentrate, with a mind like a
fine-edged tool. Precision’s important. Look
what the Nazis have done with it.”

"Huh?”

“Integration,” Rutherford said absently.
“Training for complete concentration. The Ger-
mans spent years building a machine — well, they
make a fetish out of wire-edged alertness. Look
at the stimulant drugs they give their raiding
pilots. They’ve ruthlessly cut out all distractions
that might interfere with uber alles”

Jerry O’Brien lit a pipe. “They are hard to
distract. German morale’s a funny thing. They’re
convinced they’re supermen, and that there's no
weakness in them. I suppose, psychologically

speaking, it'd be a nice irick to convince them of
personal weakness.”

“Sure. How? Semantics?”

"I dunno how. Probably it can’t be done, ex-
cept by blitzes. Even then, bombs aren’t really an
argument. Blowing a man to bits won’t neces-
sarily convince his comrades that he’s a weakling.
Nope, it'd be necessary to make Achilles notice
he had a heel.”

“Ibbety zibbety,” Bill muttered.

“Like that,” O’Brien said. "Get some crazy
tune going around a guy’s skull, and he’ll find it
difficult to concentrate. I know I do, sometimes,
whenever I go for a thing like the Hut-Sut song.”
Rutherford said suddenly, “Remember the danc-
ing manias of the middle ages?”

“Form of hysteria, wasn’t it? People lined up
in queues and jitterbugged till they dropped.”
“Rhythmic nervous exaltation. It’s never been
satisfactorily explained. Life is based on rhythm
— the whole universe is — but I won’t go cosmic on
you. Keep it low-down, to the Basin Street level.
Why do people go nuts about some kinds of
music? Why did the ‘Marseillaise’ start a
revolution?”

“Well, why?”

“Lord knows.” Rutherford shrugged. “But
certain strings of phrases, not necessarily musical,
which possess rhythm, rhyme, or alliteration, do
stick with you. You simply can’t get ’em out of
your mind. And — ” He stopped.

ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION

O’Brien looked at him. “What?”

“Imperfect semantics,” Rutherford said slowly.
"I wonder. Look, Jerry. Eventually we forget
things like the Hut-Sut. We can thrust ’em out
of our minds. But suppose you got a string of
phrases you couldn't forget? The perverse factor
would keep you from erasing it mentally — the very
effort to do so would cancel itself. Hm-m-m.
Suppose you're carefully warned not to mention
Bill Fields’ nose. You keep repeating that to
yourself ‘Don't mention the nose.’ The words,
eventually, fail to make sense. If you met Fields,
you’d probably say, quite unconsciously, ‘Hello,
Mr. Nose.' See?”

“I think so. Like the story that if you meet a
piebald horse, you’ll fall heir to a fortune if you
don't think about the horse’s tail till you’re past.”
“Exactly.” Rutherford looked pleased. “Get a
perfect semantic formula and you can’t forget it.
And the perfect formula would have everything.
It’d have rhythm, and just enough sense to start
you wondering what it meant. It wouldn’t neces-
sarily mean anything, but — ”

“Could such a formula be invented?”

“Yeah. Yeah. Combine language with mathe-
matics and psychology, and something could be
worked out. Could be, such a thing was acci-
dentally written in the middle ages. What price
the dance manias?”

“I don’t think I’d like it.” O’Brien grimaced.
“Too much like hypnosis.”

“If it is, it’s self-hypnosis, and unconscious.
That's the beauty of it. Just for the hell of it —
draw up a chair.” Rutherford reached for a pencil.

“Hey. pop.” Bill said, “why not write it in
German?”

Rutherford and O’Brien looked at each other,
startled. Slowly a gleam of diabolic understand-
ing grew in their eyes.

“German?” Rutherford murmured. “You ma-
jored in it, didn’t you, Jerry?”

“Yeah. And you’re no slouch at it, either.
Yeah — we could write it in German, couldn’t we?
The Nazis must be getting plenty sick of the
Horst Wessel song.”

“Just for the . . . uh . . . fun of it,” Rutherford
said, “let’s try. Rhythm first. Catchy rhythm,
with a break to avoid monotony. We don’t need
a tune.” He scribbled for a bit. “It’s quite im-
possible. of course, and even if we did it, Wash-
ington probably wouldn’t be interested.’’

“My uncle’s a senator,” O’Brien said blandly.

LEFT!

LEFT a wife and SEVenteen children in
STARViag condition with NOTHing but gin-
gerbread LEFT
LEFT

LEFT a wife and SEVenteen children —

“Well, I might know something about it,” said
Senator O’Brien.

The officer stared at the envelope he had just
opened. “So? A few weeks ago you gave me
this, not to be opened till you gave the word.
Now what?”

“You’ve read it.”

“I’ve read iti So you’ve been annoying the Nazi
prisoners in that Adirondack hotel. You’ve got
’em dizzy repeating some German song I can’t
make head nor tail out of.”

“Naturally. You don't know German. Neither
do I. But it seems to have worked on the Nazis.”
“My private report says they’re dancing and
singing a lot of the time.”

“Not dancing, exactly. Unconscious rhythmic
reflexes. And they keep repeating the . . . er . . .
semantic formula.”

“Got a translation?”

“Sure, but it's meaningless in English. In Ger-
man it has the necessary rhythm. I’ve already ex-
plained — ”

“I know, senator, I know. But the War De-
partment has no time for vague theories.”

“I request simply that the formula be tran.s-
mitted frequently on broadcasts to Germany. It
may be hard on the announcers, but they’ll get
over it. So will the Nazis, but by that time their
morale will be shot. Get the Allied radios to co-
operate — ”

“Do you really believe in this?”

The senator gulped. “As a matter of fact, no.
But my nephew almost convinced me. He helped
Professor Rutherford work out the formula.”
“Argued you into it?”

“Not exactly. But he keeps going around mut-
tering in German. So does Rutherford. Anyway
— this can do no harm. And I’m backing it to
the limit.”

“But — ” The officer peered at the formula in
German. “What possible harm can it do for
people to repeat a song? How can it help us-—”

LEFT!

LEFT a wife and SEVenteen children in
STARVing condition with NOTHing but gin-
gerbread LEFT
LEFT—

"Aber,” said Harben, “aber, aber, aber!”

“But me no buts,” reported his superior officer.
Eggerth. “The village must be searched com-
pletely. The High Command is quartering troops
here tomorrow, on their way to the eastern front,
and we must make sure there are no weapons
hidden anywhere."

"Aber we search the village regularly.”

“Then search it again,” Eggerth ordered. “You
know how those damned Poles are. Turn your

NOTHING BUT GINGERBREAD LEFT

back for a minute and they’ve snatched a gun out
of thin air. We want no bad reports going back
to the Ftihrer. Now get out; I must finish my
report, and it must be accurate.” He thumbed
through a sheaf of notes. "How many cows, how
many sheep, the harvest possibilities — ach. Go
away and let me concentrate. Search carefully.”
"Heil," Harben said glumly, and turned. On the
way out his feet found a familiar rhythm. He
started to mutter something.

“Captain Harben !”

Harben stopped.

“What the devil are you saying?”

“Oh — the men have a new marching song. Non-
sense, but it’s catchy. It is excellent to march to.”
“What is it?”

Harben made a deprecating gesture. “Meaning-
less. It goes ‘Left, left, left a wife and seventeen
children — ’ ”

Eggerth stopped him. "That. I've heard it.
Unsinn. Hcil.”

Heiling, Harben went away, his lips moving.
Eggerth bent over the report, squinting in the
bad light. Ten head of cattle, scarcely worth
slaughtering for their meat, but the cows giving
little milk. . . . Hm-m-m. Grain — the situation
was bad there, too. How the Poles managed to eat
at all— they’d be glad enough to have gingerbread,
Eggerth thought. For that matter, gingerbread
was nutritious, wasn’t it? Why were they in
starving condition if there was still gingerbread?
Maybe there wasn’t much —

Still, why nothing but gingerbread? Could it
be. perhaps, that the family disliked it so much
they ate up everything else first? A singularly
shortsighted group. Possibly their ration cards
allowed them nothing but gingerbread LEFT
LEFT

LEFT a wife and SEVenteen children in
STARVing condition —

• Eggerth caught himself sharply, and his pencil
began to move again. The grain — he figured rather
more slowly than usual, because his mind kept
skipping back to a ridiculous rhythm. Verdammtf
He would not —

Inhabitants of the village, thirty families, or
was it forty? Forty, yes. Men, women, children —
small families mostly. Still, one could seldom
expect to find seventeen children. With that
many, a frau could be wealthy through bounties
alone. Seventeen children. In starving condi-
tion. Why didn’t they eat the gingerbread?
Ridiculous. What, in the name of Gott, did it
matter whether seventeen nonexistent, completely
hypothetical children ate gingerbread, or, for that
matter, whether they ate nothing but gingerbread
LEFT
LEFT

LEFT a wife and SEVenteen children —

“Hell fire and damnation!” exploded Eggerth.

looking furiously at his watch. “I might have
finished the report by the time. Seventeen chil-
dren, pfuU"

Once more he bent to his work, determined not
to think of , . . of —

But it nibbled at the corners of his mind, like
an intrusive mouse. Each time he recognized its
presence, he could thrust it away. Unfortunately,
Eggerth was repeating to his subconscious, “Don’t
think of it. Forget it.”

“Forget what?” asked the subconscious auto-
matically.

“Nothing but gingerbread LEFT—”

“Oh, yeah?” said the subconscious.

The search party wasn’t working with its
accustomed zeal and accuracy. The men’s mind.s
didn’t seem entirely on their business. Harben
barked orders, conscious of certain distractions —
sweat trickling down inside his uniform, the harsh
scratchiness of the cloth, the consciousness of the
Poles silently watching and waiting. That was
the worse of being in an army of occupation. You
always felt that the conquered people were wait-
ing. Well —

“Search,” Harben commanded. “By pairs. Be
thorough.”

And they were thorough enough. They marched
here and there through the village, to a familiar
catchy rhythm, and their lips moved. Which, of
course, was harmless. The only untoward inci-
dent occurred in an attic which two soldiers were
searching. Harben wandered in to supervise. He
was astonished to see one of his men open a cup-
board, stare directly at a rusty rifle barrel, and
then shut the door again. Briefly Harben was at
a loss. The soldier moved on.

"Attention!” Harben said. Heels clicked.
“Vogel, I saw that.”

"Sir?” Vogel seemed honestly puzzled, his
broad, youthful face blank.

“We are searching for guns. Or, perhaps, the
Poles have bribed you to overlook certain mat-
ters — eh?”

Vogel’s cheeks reddened. “No. sir.”

Harben opened the cupboard and took out a
rusty, antique matchlock. It was obviously use-
less as a weapon now. btit nevertheless it should
have been conflscated. Vogel’s jaxv dropped.

“Well?”

“I . . . didn’t see it, sir.”

Harben blew out his breath angrily. “I’m not
an idiot. I saw you. man! You looked right at
that gun. Are you trying to tell me — ”

There was a pause. Vogel said stolidly, “I did
not see it, sir.”

“Ah? You are growing absent-minded. You
would not take bribes, Vogel; I know you’re a
good party man. But when you do anything, you
must keep your wits about you. Woolgathering

ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION

is dangerous business in an occupied village. Re-
; ume your search.”

Harben went out, wandering. The men definitely
seemed slightly distracted by something. What
the devil could be preying on their m.inds so that
Vogel, for example, could look right at a gun and
not see it? Nerves? Ridiculous. Nordics were
noted for self-control. Look at the way the men
moved — their co-ordinated rhythm that bespoke
perfect military training. Only through discipline
could anything valuable be attained. The body
and the mind were, in fact, machines, and should
be controlled. There a squad went down the
street, marching left, left, left a wife and —

That absurd song. Harben wondered where it
had come from. It had grown like a rumor.
Troops stationed in the village had passed it
on, but where they had learned it Heaven knew.
Harben grinned. When he got leave, he’d re-
member to tell the lads in Unter den Linden about
that ridiculous song — it was just absurd enough to
stick in your mind. Left. Left.

LEFT a wife and SEVenteen children in

STARVing condition —

After a while the men reported back; they
hadn’t found anything. The antique flintlock
wasn’t worth bothering about, though, as a matter
of routine, it must be reported and the Polish
owner questioned. Harben marched the men
back to their quarters and went to Eggerth’s billet.
Eggerth, however, was still busy, which was un-
usual, for he was usually a fast worker. He
glowered at Harben.

“Wait. I cannot be interrupted now.” And
he returned to his scribbling. The floor was al-
ready littered with crumpled papers.

Harben found an old copy of Jugend that he
hadn’t read, and settled himself in a corner. An
article on youth training was interesting. Harben
turned a page, and then realized that he’d lost the
thread. He went back.

He read a paragraph, said. “Eh?” and skipped
back again. The words were there; they entered
his mind; they made sense — of course. He was
concentrating. He wasn’t allowing that damned
marching song to interfere, with its gingerbread
LEFT

LEFT

LEFT a wife and SEVenteen children —

Harben never did finish that article.

V/jtter of the Gestapo sipped cognac and looked
across the table at Herr Doktor Schneidler. Out-
side the cafe, sunlight beat down strongly on the
Konigstrasse.

“The Russians — ” Schneidler said.

“Never mind the Russians,” Witter broke in
hastily, “I am still puzzled by that Polish affair.
Guns — ^machine guns — hidden in that village, after

it had been searched time and again. It is ridicu-
lous. There were no raids over that locality re-
cently: there was no way for the Poles to have
got those guns in the last few weeks.”

“Then they must have had them hidden for more
than a few weeks.”

“Hidden? We search carefully, Herr Doktor.
I am going to interview that man Eggerth again.
And Harben. Their records are good, but — ”
Witter fingered his mustache nervously. “No.
We can take nothing for granted. You are a
clever man; what do you make of it?”

“That the village was not well searched.”

“Yet it was. Eggerth and Harben maintain that,
and their men support them. It’s ridiculous to
suppose that bulky machine guns could have been
passed over like little automatics that can be
hidden under a board. So. When the troops
marched into that village, the Poles killed forty-
seven German soldiers by machine gunning them
from the rooftops.” Witter’s fingers beat on the
table top in a jerky rhythm.

Tap.

Tap-ta-tap-ta —

“Eh?” Witter said. “I didn’t catch-~”
“Nothing. Merely that you will, of course, in-
vestigate carefully. You have a regular routine
for such investigations, eh? Well, then — it is
simply a matter of scientific logic, as in my own
work.”

“How is that progressing?” Witter asked, going
off at a tangent.

“Soon. Soon.”

“I have heard that before. For some weeks, in
fact. Have you run into a snag? Do you need
help?”

"Ach, no,” Schneidler snapped, with sudden ir-
ritation. “t want no damn fool assistants. This
is precision work, Witter. It calls for split-
second accuracy. I have been specially trained in
thermodynamics, and I know just when a button
should be pressed, or an adjustment made. The
heat-radiation of disintegrating bodies — ” Pres-
ently Schneidler stopped, confused. “Perhaps,
though, I need a rest. I’m fagged out. My mind’s
stale. I concentrate, and suddenly I find I have
botched an important experiment. Yesterday I
had to add exactly six drops of a ... a fluid to
a mixture I’d prepared, and before I knew it the
hypo was empty, and I’d spoiled the whole thing.”
Witter scowled. “Is something worrying you?
Preying on your mind? We cannot afford to have
that. If it is your nephew — ”

“No, no. I am not worried about Franz. He’s
probably enjoying himself in Paris. I suppose
I’m . . . damn!” Schneidler smashed his fist down
on the table. “It is ridiculous! A crazy song!”
Witter raised an eyebrow and waited.

NOTHING BUT GINGERBREAD LEFT

“I have always prided myself on my mind. It
is a beautifully coherent and logical machine. I
could understand its failing through a sensible
cause — worry, or even madness. But when I can’t
get an absurd nonsense rhyme out of my head —
I broke some valuable apparatus today,” Schneidler
confessed, compressing his lips. “Another spoiled
experiment. When I realized what I’d done, I
swept the whole mess off the table. I do not want
a vacation; it is important that I finish my work
quickly."

‘‘It is important that you finish,” Witter said.
“I advise you to take that vacatioii. The Bavarian
Alps are pleasant. Fish, hunt, relax completely.
Do not think about your work. I would not mind
going with you, but — ” He shrugged.

Storm troopers passed along the Konigstrasse.
They were repeating words that made Schneidler
jerk nervously. Witter’s hands resumed their
rhythm on the table top.

“I shall take that vacation,” Schneidler said.

“Good. It will fix you up. Now I must get on
with my investigation of that Polish affair, and
then a check*up on some Luftwaffe pilots — ”

The Herr Doktor Schneidler, four hours later,
sat alone in a train compartment, already miles out
of Berlin. The countryside was green and pleas-
ant outside the windows. Yet, for some reason,
Schneidler was not happy.

He lay back on the cushions, relaxing. Think
about nothing. That was it. Let the precision
tool of his mind rest for a while. Let his mind
wander free. Listen to the somnolent rhythm of
the wheels, clickety-clickety —

CLICK!

CLICK a wife and CLICKenteen children in

STARVing condition with NOTHing but gin-
gerbread LEFT —

Schneidler cursed thickly, jumped up, and
yanked the cord. He was going back to Berlin.
But not by train. Not in any conveyance that
had wheels. Gott, no!

The Herr Doktor walked back to Berlin. At
first he walked briskly. Then his face whitened,
and he lagged. But the compelling rhythm con-
tinued. He went faster, trying to break step. For
a while that worked. Not for long. His mind kept

ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION

slipping his gears, and each time he’d find himself
going LEFT —

He started to run. His beard streaming, his
eyes aglare, the Herr Doktor Schneidler, great
brain and all, went rushing madly back to Berlin,
but he couldn’t outpace the silent voice that said,
faster and faster, LEFT
LEFT

LEFTawifeandSEVenteenchildrenin
ST AR Vingcondition —

"Why did that raid fail?” Witter asked.

The Luftwaffe pilot didn't know. Everything
had been planned, as usual, well in advance. Every
possible contingency had been allowed for, and
the raid certainly shouldn’t have failed. The
R. A. F. planes should have been taken by sur-
prise. The Luftwaffe should have dropped their
bombs on the targets and retreated across the
Channel without difficulty.

"You had your shots before going up?”

“Yes, sir.”

"Kurtman, your bombardier, was killed?”

"Yes, sir.”

"Inexcusably ?”

There was a pause. Then — “Yes, sir.”

“He could have shot down that Hurricane that
attacked you?”

“I . . , yes, sir.”

"Why did he fail?”

“He was . . . singing, sir.”

Witter leaned back in his chair, “He was
singing. And I suppose he got so interested in
the song that he forgot to fire.”

“Yes, sir.”

"Then, why In the name of . . . of — Why didn’t
you dodge that Hurricane?”

"I was singing, too. sir.”

The R. A. F. were coming over. The man at
the antiaircraft whistled between his teeth and
waited. The moonlight would help. He settled
himself in the padded seat and peered into the
eyepiece. All was ready. Tonight there were at
least some British ships that would go raiding no
more.

It was a minor post in occupied France, and
the man wasn’t especially important, except that
he was a good marksman. He looked up, watching
a little cloud luminous in the sky. He was re-
minded of a photographic negative. The British
planes would be dark, unlike the cloud, until the
searchlights caught them. Then —

Ah. well. Left. Left. Left a -wife and seven-
teen —

They had sung that at the canteen last night,
chanting in it chorus. A catchy piece. When he
got back to Berlin — if ever — he must remember
the words. How did they go?

— in starving condition —

His thoughts ran on independently of the auto-
matic rhythm in his brain. Was he dozing? Star-
tled, he shook himself, and then realized that he
was still alert. There was no danger. The song
kept him awake, rather than inducing slumber.
It had a violent, exciting swing that got into a
man’s blood with its LEFT
LEFT

LEFT a wife —

However, he must remain alert. When the
R. A. F. bombers came over, he must do what
he had to do. And they were coming now. Dis-
tantly he could hear the faint drone of their
motors, pulsing monotonously like the song, bomb-
ers for Germany, starving condition, with nothing
but gingerbread
LEFT!

LEFT

LEFT a wife and SEVenteen children in
STARVing condition with —

Remember the bombers, your hand on the trig-
ger, your eye to the eyepiece, with nothing but
gingerbread
LEFT!

LEFT

LEFT a wife and —

Bombers are coming, the British are coming,
but don't fire too quickly, just wait till they’re
closer, and LEFT
LEFT

LEFT a wife and there are their motors, and
there go the searchlights, and there they come
over, in starving condition with nothing but gin-
gerbread
LEFT!

LEFT!

LEFT a wife and SEKenteen children in —
They were gone. The bombers had passed over.
He hadn't fired at all. He’d forgotten!

They’d passed over. Not one was left. Nothing
was left. Nothing but gingerbread
LEFT!

The Minister of Propaganda looked at the re-
port as though it might suddenly turn into Stalin
and bite him. "No,” he said firmly. "No. Witter.
If this is false, it is false. If it is true, we dare
not admit it.”

"I don’t see why,” Witter argued. “It’s that
song. I’ve been checking up for a long time, and
it’s the only logical answer. The thing has swept
the German-speaking world. Or it soon will."
“And what harm can a song do?”

Witter tapped the report. “You read this. The
troops breaking ranks and doing . . . what is it?
, , , . snake dances! And singing that piece all
the while.”

"Forbid them to sing it.” But the minister’s
voice was dubious.

“/a, but can they be forbidden to think it?

NOTHING BUT GINGERBREAD LEFT

i' hey alwaya think of what is verboten. They can’t
help it. It's a basic human instinct.”

‘‘That is what I mean when I said we couldn’t
admit the menace of this — song. Witter. It
mustn’t be made important to Germans. If they
consider it merely as an absurd string of words,
they’ll forget it. Eventually,” the minister added.

“The Fuhrer—”

“He must not know. He must not hear about
this. He is a nervous type. Witter; you realize
that. I hope he will not hear the song. But, even
if he does, he mast not realize that it is poten-
tially dangerous.”

“Potentially?”

The minister gestured significantly. “Men
have killed themselves because of that song. The
scientist Schneidler was one. A nervous type. A
manic-depressive type, in fact. He brooded over
the fact that the ginger — that the phrases stuck
in his mind. In a depressive mood, he swallowed
poison. There have been others. Witter, between
ourselves, this is extremely dangerous. Do you
know why?”

“Because it’s — absurd?”

“Yes. There is a poem, perhaps you know it —
life is real, life is earnest. Germany believes that.
We are a logical race. We conquer through logic,
because Nordics are the superrace. And if super-
men discover that they cannot control their
minds — ”

Witter sighed. “It seems strange that a song
should be so important.”

"There is no weapon against it. If we admit
that it is dangerous, we double or triple its
menace. At present, many people find it hard
to concentrate. Some find rhythmic movements
necessary — uncontrollable. Imagine what would
happen if we forbade the people to think of the
song.”

“Can’t we use psychology? Make it ridiciilou->
— explain it away?”

“It is ridiculous already. It makes no pretense
••^t being anything more than an absurd string of
nearly meaningless words. And we can’t admit
it has to be explained away. Also, I hear that
some are finding treasonable meanings in it. which
is the height of nonsense.”

“Oh? How?”

“Famine. The necessity for large families.
Even desertion of the Nazi ideal. Er . . . even
the ridiculous idea that gingerbread refers to—”
The minister glanced up at the picture on the
wall.

Witter looked startled, and, after a hesitant
pause, laughed. ‘T never thought of that. Silly.
What I always wondered was why they were
starving when there was still plenty of ginger-
bread. Is it possible to be allergic to ginger-
bread?”

“I do not think so. The gingerbread may have

been poisoned— a man who would desert his family
might have cause to hate them, also. Perhaps hate
them enough to — Captain Witter!”

There was a blank silence. Presently Witter
got up, heiled, and departed, carefully breaking
step. The minister looked again at the picture
on the wall, tapped the bulky report before him,
and shoved it away to examine a typewritten sheaf
which was carefully labeled IMPORTANT. It
was important. In half an hour the Ftihrer would
broadcast a speech, one for which the world had
been waiting. It would explain certain things
about dubious matters, such as the Russian cam-
paign. And it was a good speech — excellent
propaganda. There were to be two broadcasts, the
first to Germany, the second to the rest of the
world.

The minister rose and walked back and forth
on the rich carpet. His lip lifted in a sneer. The
way to conquer any enemy was to crush him —
face him and smash him. If the rest of Germany
had his own mentality, his own self-confidence,
that ridiculous song would lose all its force.

“So,” the minister said. “It goes so. Left.
Left. Left a wife and seventeen children — so. It
cannot harm me. It can get no hold on my mind.
I repeat it, but only when I wish to do so; and I
wish to do so to prove that the doggerel is futile
— on me, anyway. So. Left. Left. Left a
wife — ”

Back and forth strode the Minister of Propa-
ganda, his hard, clipped voice snappily intoning
the phrases. This wasn’t the first time. He often
repeated the song aloud — but, of course, merely
to prove to himself that he was stronger than it.

Adolf Hitler was thinking about gingerbread
and Russia. There were other problems, too. It
was difficult being Leader. Eventually, when a
hotter man came along, he would step out, his
work done. The well-worn record slipped from its
groove, and Hitler pondered the speech he held.
Yes. it was good. It explained much — why things
had gone wrong in Russia, why the English in-
vasion had failed, why the English were doing
the impossible by way of raiding the continent.
He had worried about those problems. They were
not really problems, but the people might not un-
derstand, and might lose confidence in their
Fiihrer. However, the speech would explain
everything — even Hess. Goebbels had worked for
days on the psychological effects of the speech,
and it was, therefore, doubly important that it go
through without a hitch. Hitler reached for an
atomizer and sprayed his throat, though that was
really unnecessary. His voice was in top shape.

It would be distressing if —

Pfui! There would be no hitch. The speech
w'as too important. He had made speeches before,
swayed people with the weapon of his voice. The

ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION

crucial point, of course, was the reference to Rus-
sia and the ill-fated spring campaign. Yet Goeb-
bels had a beautiful explanation; it was true, too.

“It is true,” Hitler said aloud.

Well, it was. And sufficiently convincing.
From the Russian discussion he would go on to
Hess, and then —

But the Russian question — that was vital. He
must throw all his power into the microphones at
that moment. He rehearsed mentally. A pause.
Then, in a conversational voice, he would say, “At
last I may tell you the truth about our Russian
campaign, and why it was a triumph of strategy
for German arms — ”

He’d prove it, too.

But he must not forget for a moment how vitally
important this speech was, and especially the
crucial point in it. Remember. Remember. Do
it exactly as rehearsed. Why, if he failed —

There was no such word.

But if he failed —

No. Even if he did —

But he wouldn’t. He mustn’t. He never had.
And this was a crisis. Not an important one, after
all, he supposed, though the people were no
longer wholeheartedly behind him. Well, what
was the worst that could happen? He might be
unable to make the speech. It would be post-
poned. There could be explanations. Goebbels
could take care of that. It wasn’t important.

Don’t think about it.

On the contrary, think about it. Rehearse again.
The pause. “At last I may tell you — ”

It was time.

All over Germany people were waiting for the
speech. Adolf Hitler stood before the micro-
phones, and he was no longer worried. At the
back of his mind, he created a tiny phonograph
record that said, over and over, “Russia. Russia.
Russia.” It would remind him what to do, at the
right moment. Meanwhile, he launched into his
speech.

It was good. It was a Hitler speech.

“Now!” said the record.

Hitler paused, taking a deep breath, throwing
his head arrogantly back. He looked out at the
thousands of faces beneath his balcony. But he
wasn't thinking about them. He was thinking of
the pause, and the next line ; and the pause length-
ened.

Important! Remember! Don’t faill

Adolf Hitler opened his mouth. Words came
out. Not quite the right words.

Ten seconds later Adolf Hitler was cut off the
air.

It wasn't Hitler personally who spoke to the
world a few hours later. Goebbels had had a
record made, and the transcription, oddly enough,
didn’t mention Russia. Or any of the vital ques-
tions that had been settled so neatly. The Fiihrer
simply couldn’t talk about those questions. It
wasn’t mike fright, exactly. Whenever Hitler
reached the crucial point in his speech, he turned
green, gritted his teeth, and said — the wrong
thing. He couldn’t get over that semantic bloc.
The more he tried, the less he succeeded. Finally
Goebbels saw what was happening and called it
off.

The world broadcast was emasculated. At the
time there was considerable discussion as to why
Hitler hadn’t stuck to his announced program.
He’d intended to mention Russia. Why, then —

Not many people knew. But more people will
know now. In fact, a lot of people in Germany
are going to know. Things get around there.
Planes go over and drop leaflets, and people whis-
per, and they’ll remember a certain catchy Germa;;
stanza that’s going the rounds.

Yeah. Maybe this particular copy of Astound-
ing will find its way to England, and maybe an
K. A. F. pilot will drop it near Berlin, or Paris,
for that matter. Word will get around. There
are lots of men on the continent who can read
English.

And they’ll talk.

They won’t believe, at first. But they’ll keep
their eyes open. And there’s a catchy little rhythm
they’ll remember. Some day the story will reach
Berlin or Berchtesgarten. Some day it'll reach
the guy with the little mustache and the big voice.

And. a little while later— days or weeks, it
doesn’t matter— Goebbels is going to walk into a
big room, and there he’s going to see Adolf Hitler
goose-stepping around and yelling:

LEFT

LEFT a wife and SEVenteen children in

STARVing condition with NOTHing but gin-
gerbread LEFT —

THE END.

Until somebody figures out that rhythm —

10% For Wor Bonds Every Poy Doy

is the next best rhythm!

BAIIRIUS, IMP

By Malcolm Jameson

• A sequel to "Anadirnn, Inc." A tnie of business — a peculiar sort of business —
and ancient wrongs where laughing gas and sudden death are crossed up.

Illustrated by M. Isip

The three days’ leave at “home” — “home” mean-
ing New York of 1957 — had done Mark Barry,
erstwhile major of Commandos but now trader
extraordinary for the great Anachron company,
a world of good. He strode through the main
doorway of the borne office building on Wall
Street full of eagerness to get on to his next as-
signment. That, Kilmer, his sales manager, had
said, would be as manager of the station in ancient
Rome.

He gave no more than a passing glance at the
throng of businessmen passing in and out of the

building in their eternal quest for contracts. Nor
did he pause this time, as he had on his first
visit, to wonder about the many queer departments
housed above. For he knew now something of
the intricacies of intertemporal trade, and the
meticulous care that Anachron took to avoid un-
duly upsetting the economies or cultures of the
less civilized peoples and eras with which they
dealt.

When he reached the floor on which Kilmer’s
office was, he stepped out of the elevator and
walked briskly down the hall, humming cheerily

ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-PICTION

as he went. But he stilled his inward song the
moment he was inside Kilmer’s office, for that
gentleman was sitting dejectedly at his desk,
gnawing his fingers, and scowling at a piece of
paper on his desk. Barry knew already that his
boss had long had the conviction that the business
of intertemporal trade management was just one
perpetual headache, and it was painfully clear
that on this particular morning the managerial
head was aching at one of its peaks. Kilmer
acknowledged his entrance by a morose stare, then
waved him wearily to a chair, after which he re-
sumed glowering at the document that had fur-
nished his daily upset. Presently he flipped it
across to Barry.

"That’s gratitude for you,” he said, bitterly,
and slumped deeper in his chair while Barry read
the flimsy. It was an IT ethergram, dated at
Rome in the year 182, routed via "Atlantis” base
on Pantelleria.

WHAT DO YOU MEAN I’M FIRED YOU CAN’T
FIRE ME YOU BIG STIFF STOP O. K. SHUT OFF
YOUR DAMN SHUTTLES AND SEE WHO CARES
I’M SITTING PRETTY STOP OR IF YOU THINK
IT’LL GET YOU ANYTHING SEND DOWN ONE
OF YOUR BRIGHT YOUNG MEN TO HELP ME
RUN THINGS I’M TOO BUSY TO BOTHER STOP
PATRICIUS CASSIDUS SEN ROM

Barry laid the message back on Kilmer’s desk
and raised his eyebrows in silent interrogation.
Kilmer sighed heavily and Barry thought he was
on the verge of breaking down and weeping.

“That is from Pat Cassidy, our Roman repre-
sentative — the guy you were supposed to relieve,”
explained Mr. Kilmer in his lugubrious mono-
tone. "I picked him up in the depths of the de-
pression. a jobless down-at-the-heels peanut poli-
tician. I gave him the best job he ever had. I
made him filthy rich. And this is what I get.”

Barry still did not say anything. The situa-
tion was far from clear.

"But it's not the personal angle that’s biting
me.” Kilmer went on, "it’s the business aspects
of the mess. Nothing like it ever happened in our
organization before. Up in Ethics they're wild,
the Control Board is having fits, and the Discip-
linary Committee keeps burning me up and asking
me why can’t I control my men. Export-Import
horses me about quotas, but when I pass ’em along
to Cassidy all I get is silence. I order him up
here for conference and he won't come. Finally
T tell him he’s fired — and I get this. Hell!"

"But." asked Barry, "what’s it all about?”

"Look,” said Kilmer, significantly, dragging out
a ponderous file. "It made some sense when it
started out. but it gets screwier with every or-
der.”

Barry took the order file and riffled through
it. In the first years, when Cassidy pioneered
the Roman branch under the emperor Marcus

Aurelius, his orders were what were to have been
expected. Anachron exported to Rome vast quan-
tities of modernized armor and weapons — drop-
forged, chrome and molybdenum alloy stuff —
enough to equip ten full legions from helmet to
sandals. There were tons of Portland cement,
hand-operated winches and capstans, derrick fit-
tings and cordage for the harbor improvements
at Ostia. Wheat and flour used to flow by the
thousands of bushels, in return for olive oil, na-
tive wines, and especially marble statuary. Then,
of a sudden, the nature of the orders underwent
a sharp change. Instead of their being for the
huge quantities desired by Anachron, they called
for scattered items, a few of each, such as a pair
of dental chairs, five complete sets of surgical
instruments, or ten old-fashioned fire engines with
hose and pumps to be operated by willing backs.
The only quantity requisitions were two in num-
ber: one for twenty tons of the drug afeverin —
a sulphanilimide compound similar in properties
to quinine but far more effective — and an astonish-
ing order for ten million additional plastic poker
chips.

"During the entire last quarter,” Kilmer wailed,
as Barry handed the file back to him, "he hasn’t
sold one schooner load of stuff. We have forty
fine two-masters rotting at their piers at Pantel-
leria waiting for something to carry. Still the
overhead goes on while that guy fools around with
piddling orders for poker chips and drugs. Can
you beat it?”

“Must be a reason,” ventured Barry. “Maybe
Cassidy is playing a deep game and isn’t ready
to spring it.”

“Maybe," said Kilmer, dismally. “But you
haven’t heard all. There is more to this than meets
the eye. When we decided to open up a branch
in Rome, we selected the island of Pantelleria
for our secret base — it is not far from Carthage
and centrally located as regards the empire. Cas-
sidy sold the Romans the idea that he was from
Atlantis and that his ships came all the way in
past the Pillars of Hercules. It was a good idea
— too good, for the Romans recognized him as a
kindred sort, having similar customs and religion,
and made him a citizen of the city. For an ex-
politician like Cassidy, that was all he needed.
I suspect he started some side lines that turned
into rackets, but anyhow it was not long before
he was rolling in dough. Then he upped and
married the widow of a rich Roman senator, and
on top of that wangled a seat in the senate for
himself. That was bad enough, but old Marcus
Aurelius kicked the bucket and a no-good play-
boy by the name of Commodus became emperor
in his stead. Pat Cassidy and Commodus are
buddies. That tears everything."

“How come?”

BARRIUS, IMP.

“If we 6re Cassidy, he says he’ll have our
charter revoked.. If we stop sending shuttles,
Commodus will confiscate our warehouses and
ships. Control says we have too heavy an in-
vestment down there . . . mustn’t do that . . . have
to do it some other way.”

“Yeah,” said Barry, softly, "I begin to get it.”
He stirred in his seat and stared at Kilmer as
the full implications of Cassidy's rebellion un-
folded in his mind. Under ordinary circum-
stances Anachron had a sure-fire means of bring-
ing a recalcitrant employee to terms. They had
only to threaten to shut off his shuttles and leave
him stranded wherever in time he happened to
be, but until Cassidy became so enamored of an-
cient Rome, no other employee had shown symp-
toms of going native. Nobody conditioned to
the twentieth century relished being marooned
on the sawed-off stump of a branch time track
in some barbaric age. In the Cassidy case the
company would only be cutting off its nose to
spite its face, for they would not only lose their
properties at Atlantis, but also the buildings at
Ostia and In Rome. ' Moreover, it would be in-
effectual, for Cassidy wouldn’t mind it in the
least.

On the other hand, if the company fired him
only to leave him at large in Rome, it would have
an awkward situation on its hands, even if he
did not carry out his threat to confiscate the
propertiee. His successor would have as an ad-
versary a renegade from his own century who was
a disgruntled ex-employee to boot. He could not
hope to get away with the pleasant little fic-
tions employed by Anachron salesmen in other
places and ages — for Cassidy knew all the an-
swers, Also, there would be nothing to prevent
him from divulging to the Romans various secrets
hitherto forbidden by Ethics and the Policy
Board. Such items as explosives, power ma-
chinery and electricity were on the list. Yes.
it was pretty obvious that Cassidy’s attitude posed
a problem.

“What,* asked Barry, “are you going to do
about it?”

“He says here,” Kilmer replied, “that he will
accept an assistant. That’s you. Go down there
and build the business back to where it ought
!o be. That's job munber one. Then get Cassidy.”
"Get him? Bump him off?” Barry thought that
was going a bit strong.

“Oh, no. Not necessarily. A snatch will do.
There ought to be plenty of jobless thugs and
assassins roaming the streets hunting work to
do the rough stuff for you. But I want Cassidy
up here in this very office. Whether you talk
him into coming or send him up in chains is all
one to me. That U up to you—”

A messenger came in and deposited a memo-
randum on Kilmer’s desk. It had a lurid red

“Urgent” tag clipped to it. Kilmer read it and
passed it on to Barry. It was a general order,
effective at once. The memo read:

In view of a recent embarrassing situation in one of
our important branches, the following rule is promul-
gated. RULE G-45607: Hereafter, any Anachron em-
ployee who accepts any public office or honor in the era
in which he is operating will forthwith be discharged and
abandoned in that era. This penalty will be applied in-
variably and without regard for the magnitude of the
company’s investment in that era, the employee’s previ-
ous good record, or surrounding circumstances.

“That means ‘keep out of politics,’ ” said Kil-
mer. “Watch your step.”

“I’ll watch it,” said Barry.

Within an hour he was ready to leave. A brief
visit to the Roman room in the research wing
fixed him up as to the special knowledge he would
require. A skilled hypnotist put him en rapport
with a pair of savants, and Barry arose shortly
thereafter with his brain packed with magically
acquired knowledge. He was familiar now with
Roman laws and customs, and able to speak flu-
ently in Latin and Greek. They also gave him
a smattering of Aramiac, Gaulish, and the com-
moner Punic dialects in the event he had need
to visit the provinces. After that a short stop
at the costume room fitted him with a snow-white
toga of fine linen for Roman summer wear — far
lighter and more comfortable than the woolen ones
the Romans wore. Then he went down to the
shuttle room.

It was an interesting place, and one he had
never seen before. True, he had made a round
trip to Medieval France, but that had been on
one of the big freighter shuttles operating out
of the huge Export-Import warehouse uptown.
The room he was in at the moment was a different
sort of a terminal. Here was where the small
one and two-passenger shuttles took off with
special messengers and others sent abroad by the
Home Office direct. Barry handed over his pass
to the dispatcher in charge, and sat down to
wait.

The room was large and divided in half by an
iron rail which barred the passengers from the
landing platforms. There were eight of those,
each stall separated from the others by other iron
rails. From time to time a shuttle would appear
briefly in the space set aside for it, and its pas-
senger would either step on or off. as the case
might be, and the shuttle would vanish. Many
of the travelers wore outlandish garb, even as the
be-togaed Barry did. One resplendent creature
stepped out of a shuttle wearing a suit of quilted
cotton armor and a gorgeous headdress of colored
feathers. His face was painted with vivid colors
to a tigerish make-up.

“Hi, Steve,” greeted another man in the wait-

ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION

ing room, this one dressed as a Chinese manda-
rin. "How you doing? Where you been?”

“Tenochtitlan,” said the one with the Aztec
getup. “We’re trying to get an in with Monte-
zuma before Cortez gets there and gums the
works.”

Barry was curious as to the exact workings of
the shuttles, but he knew that was a secret he was
not likely ever to know. One of the most in-
flexible of Anachron’s many rules forbade that
information to all but qualified shuttle opera-
tors. And there was a good reason for it. Be-
fore it had been made, in the early days, each
trader was allowed his own, but there were ac-
cidents. Twice embezzling agents hopped into
their machines with their loot and departed deep
into the past for destinations unknown. On an-
other occasion a salesman whose sweetie had a
yen to meet Marie Antoinette undertook to gratify
her. They borrowed a shuttle on a Sunday after-
noon with the announced intention of crashing
a garden party at Versailles. Whatever hap-
pened. they were never seen again. Then there
was the time when four ex-employees, fully armed
with hand grenades and submachine guns, in-
vaded the big warehouse and swiped a heavy
freighter. They said they were only going to
Lima to lift the Inca treasure from the Spaniards
and would be back in an hour or two. They did
not show up again. So Anachron thought it
best thereafter to restrict the knowledge of how
to operate the intertemporal vehicles to a tried
and selected few.

At length the dispatcher called out, “Special
shuttle for Ostia . . . leaving berth six in five
minutes—” and Barry hitched his toga about him-
self and made ready to shove off. A little bit
later he was stepping out of the shuttle in a small
steel-walled room which had but a single door.
Beside the door was hanging the receiving end
of a scanner.

“End of the line,” said the shuttle operator,
flicking over his controls. “If the coast is clear,
step out that door. It has a spring lock and will
lock itself behind you.”

“How do I get back in here?” Barry wanted
to know.

“Mr. Cassidy has the keys,” said the operator.
There was a click and a whir and the shuttle and
operator vanished.

“Sweet, I must say,” muttered Barry, glaring
at the vacant floor. Then he picked up the scan-
ner and peeped outside.

All there was to be seen was the huge dim nave
of an almost empty warehouse. Barry went
through the door and picked his way among the
few stacks of barrels and boxes, looking for an
outer door. The big main ones were closed and
barred, but he found a bricked-off cubicle he took

to be the warehouse office. That he entered.
Inside there was a desk and chair. On the chair
sat a good-looking Greek slave boy, leaning tilted
back and with his feet sprawled out on the desk,
reading what appeared to be an absorbing scroll.

“Where’s the boss?” demanded Barry, seeing
the fellow did not look up or take any other
notice of him.

“How would I know?” answered the slave, with-
out taking his eyes from the script. Instead he
twirled the knobs and exposed a fresh page.
Barry’s outthrust foot neatly knocked the chair
from under, and hardly had the flunky hit the
floor before he found himself lifted by the scruff
of the neck and shaken vigorously.

“Where is Cassidus?” roared the angry Barry.

“I ... I c-can’t tell you, sir,” moaned the Greek
between chattering teeth. "He might be in the
forum, or again at the palace or the senate. Or
he might be at home up on the Viminal, or at his
villa at Tivoli, or at his slave ranch down the
Appian Way, or — ”

“How am I going to find him?” reiterated
Barry, renewing his shaking.

“G-go to the temple of Hermes two squares
down the street,” answered the miserable slave.
“Not the orthodox Hellenic one, but the Atlantian
shrine. Make an offering. Hermes knows.”

“Hermes, huh?” growled Barry. “What do you
mean, offering?”

The warehouse clerk fumbled in his tunic and
brought forth a pair of blue chips. He handed
them both to Barry.

“One of these ought to be enough.” he said.

“All right. Call me a taxi . . . er, litter, that
is,” said Barry, pocketing the chips. They were
beautifully made — a typical Anachron product —
being of a pearly, jadelike plastic and having a
white fleur-de-lis inlay. They were light, glossy,
and unbreakable. Then he followed the boy out
onto the quay and climbed into a litter that hap-
pened to be passing at the very moment.

Barry felt very lordly as he lolled back in the
cushions and was borne along jigglingly by the
four husky porters. He cast his eye over the
harbor improvements and approved. Neat con-
crete quays lined the basin, and out at the sea-
ward edge ran an efficient-looking breakwater.
The warehouse he had just left was Anachron’s
own, built to house its wares before business de-
clined to its present sad stage. Then Barry saw
a fading sign nailed to a derrick. It announced
to the world that the harbor improvements of
Ostia were being made by Patricius Cassidus.
contractor.

The Utter drew away from the water front
and into Ostia’s main street. As ii approached
the temple for which he was bound, Barry no-
ticed with some surprise that above the pedi-
ment there were stretched some very familiai-

BARRIUS. IMP.

looking wires. But he asked no questions of the
bearers, and let them deposit him at the door.

He found the inside of the temple somewhat
surprising. It was not in the least in conformity
to the hypnotic picture given him by the scholars.
The place had more the appearance of a modern
bank or steamship office than a temple to the
messenger of the gods. Inside the door were two
marble benches along which sat a number of
urchins, most of whom wore sandals to which
roller skates were attached. They looked to Barry
like messengers waiting for a call. A little way
inside a marble counter barred off the rest of
the room. Beyond it stood a heroic figure of the
god himself, complete with winged shoes and
winged helmet. But, incongruously, between his
feet sat a modern cash register, and cut into the
pedestal below there was a mailing slot.

A robed priest stepped up to the counter wear-
ing an ingratiating smile.

“A petition to his godship, sir?” he asked.

“I suppose so.” said Barry, uncertain quite
how to proceed.

“Local or long distance?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Fill this out, please,” said the priest, and pulled
out a pad of printed forms from beneath the coun-
ter. He shoved it across and handed Barry a
stylus. Barry looked at it, and there was a grudg-
ing admiration in his eyes. It was just the sort
of thing he would have pulled if he had thought
of it first. It looked like this:

PETITION

Hermes Atlanttcus, Priest Receiving

Ostia Branch. Date Time

28 Julian Way. Amt. Offering

TO; Our indulgent lord Hermes, fleetest of messengers,

Hail! Be so kind as to inform

that

Answer (check one)

Yes. No.

Barry filled it out, leaving the address blank.
Surely, the priest knew Cassidy! The message
simply stated that one Marcus Barrius wished the
honorable senator to know that his new assistant
had arrived from Atlantis and what to do? Then
he handed it to the priest.

The priest read it through carefully, counted
the words, pursed his brows for a moment in heavy
thought, and then mentioned a number of sesterces.
Barry had completely forgotten to supply him-
self with Roman money, but he had the odd gift
of the Anachron warehouseman. Without a word
he produced one of the blue chips and offered
it.

“Ah,” said the priest, with apparent delight.

He fondled it a moment admiringly, then rang
it up in the cash register.

Barry’s petition was deposited in the slot, and
somewhere behind the scenes came a faint bong.
The amount of change that Barry got from his
chip was amazing — one golden aureus, and a hand-
ful of lesser silver and copper coins. Blue chips,
seemingly, were well thought of in Rome.

Barry stood back from the counter as other
supplicants came up to file their petitions. The
cash register clanged often as offering after offer-
ing was dropped into its drawer, and the little
gong in the back rang as frequently. Above those
sounds Barry's keen ears caught the telltale buzz-
buzz-buzzity-buzz of a sending key, and he smiled
inwardly at the sound. At last the priest beck-
oned him. He held a bit of paper in his hand
which he did not deliver, but which he studied
with a slightly bewildered look.

“Hermes has favored you greatly,” interpreted
the priest, “and sends you further tidings. The
words are occult — aye, barbarous — but perhaps
you will comprehend. Thus speaks the swift mes-
senger:

“CROOK AN ELBOW WITH ME AT THE
PALACE OF FORTUNA, CHOWTIME TONIGHT.
SKIP THE WHITE TIE. TELL THE DRIP THAT’S
WAITING ON YOU THAT YOU BELONG AND
MAKE HIM KICK BACK THE ANTE. WHEN WE
CHIN, IT’S ON THE HOUSE. PAT.’’

“Thanks,” said Barry, and started to turn away.
But the priest continued to stare at the flimsy
in his hand with an unhappy expression.

“Chowtime? Drip? Chin — on the house?” he
queried anxiously.

“Forget it,” said Barry. For that matter the
chip he had paid with had been on the house, and
he was grateful for the hard money he had in
change. He still had to have himself transported
up to the city,

“How do I get to the Palace of Fortuna?” asked
Barry, to take the priest’s mind off the puzzling
message. At once the priest brightened. Until
then he had had a vague feeling that somehow
the communication from Hermes contained a
veiled reference to him, but apparently he had
misread the Atlantian jargon.

“You can’t miss it,” he said. “It is the only
place in Rome that is lit up at night. It is across
the way from the coliseum — just follow the
crowd.”

“Thanks,” said Barry, and walked away.

As his litter was carried down the street he
stuck his neck out over the edge and looked back.
From that point he could clearly see all of the
small marble temple and its anachronistic crown of
ruddy antennae.

“Racket Number One,” he chuckled, “and a
honey!”

ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION

The Palace of Fortuna was not misnamed. Or
rather, it was undeniably palatial, though in some
quarters the Fortuna part might be debatable. It
was garishly lit by gasoline flare's such as are
used in tent shows, and stuck out in the dark
streets of Rome like a Times Square in the heart
o£ Podunk. Hordes of Reman sports were con-
verging upon it, borne in litters, or staggering
along on foot. It was an odorous mob, heavily
perfumed and marcelled after the afternoon ses-
sion at the baths, and it was clear that its mem-
bers were on pleasure bent.

Inside, Barry was at enee confronted with more
of Cassidy’s ingenuity, for he was beginning to
recognize his touch wherever he turned. In a
huge antefoom the arriving guests were shedding
their hot togas for the better enjoyment of the
evening. Sloe-eyed Egyptian damsels in a tricky
and revealing livery attended to the checking.
Qn the counter before them was the inevitable
tray sprinkled with high denomination coins —
tip bait. Barry grinned. He began to feel at
home. Cassidy, whatever his faults, must be some
boy.

in the foyer he came upon another interesting
sight. Along one wall ran a row of cashier’s
cages wherein men armed with jeweler's loups,
acids and balances, were weighing and appraising
the vast miscellany of coins being offered them.
They paid off in chips, the only medium of ex-
change, apparently, accepted within the walls of
Fortuna’s Palace. That, of course, had long been
standard practice in the casinos of the world, but
Barry saw a deeper significance, and his admira-
tion for his opponent's shrewdness grew. He was
insinuating Anachron chips into the Roman tvorld
as its currency!

For the coinage of the day was anything but
reliable. Administrations had a way, when the
fiscal goiiig got rough, of balancing budgets by
debasing their coins. What the aureus of one
issue might contain in the way of gold was not
at all what the next might have. Moreover, coins
could be counterfeited, whereas a twentieth-
century plastic product could not possibly be.
So there it was — a uniform, unbreakable, beauti-
ful. and unforgeable medium of circulation. And
the beauty of it — from Cassidy’s point of view —
was that it could only be had through him. The
fact that they could buy food and drink and
places at games of chance where issued gave them
limited value. But Barry had already seen that
the far-flung Hermetic communication system was
also accepting them gratefully. How many other
rackets did Cassidy operate where the new coin-
age was good? And how could he lose? He
bought the chips wholesale at five trade dollars
the thousand ; he sold them for whatever he said
they were worth.

Barry wandered on past the bar, past the en-

trance to a sumptuous dining hall where groups
were banqueting, and on through several game
rooms. There was chuck-a-luck and craps, faro,
poker and stud tables. Barry observed that liv-
eried members of the house staff were most atten-
tive to the latter, never failing to pinch off the
exact amount of kitty fodder whenever it was
due. He saw also that the well-patroivized rou-
lette wheels had four green zeros, and marveled
at the unanalytical Latin mind. Nor did he over-
look the gorillas strategically located amongst
the throng, off-duty gladiators probably, ready
and willing to slap down any overexuberant guest.
And then a flunky plucked at a fold of his toga.
The senator, he said, was awaiting his gue&t in his
private dining room.

The dining room was at the end of a long mar-
ble corridor which was lined with soldiers of
the Praetorian Guard resplendent in chromium-
plated armor of Anachron’s best design. A husky
centurion looked Barry over curiously, but made
no effort to block his passage. So, thought, Barry,
Mr. Cassidy goes in for bodyguards! And then
he was ushered into the dining room— one
equipped in true Roman style, where Cassidy and
two other guests reclined on couches while they
toyed with their food.

“Hi, fella,” greeted Cassidy, not bothering to
get up, but waving to a vacant couch. “Welcome
to our city. It's quite a place when you know
the ropes. It’s wide open, and I mean wide — all
the way across.”

Pat Cassidy in the flesh came as quite a shock.
Barry had expected to meet a tall, lanky Irish
lad of about his own age and who wore a rascally
twinkle in his eye. The man before him may
have answered to that description once, but no
longer. He was disgracefully fat, and bald on
top. His eyes were pale blue and goggly, with
heavy bags beneath. His voice was hardly better
than a croak, and he accompanied his opening
remarks with a sordid wink and a knowing leer.
Barry’s growing admiration for the ingenuity
of what rackets he had seen was suddenly tem-
pered by disgust. The two boon companions
were not of a type to reassure, either. Both were
dissipated and foppish-looking, and one, whom
Cassidy addressed as Quint, had a lurking air of
cruelty about him that was distinctly unpleasant.

“Meet my pais, Quintus and Gains,” said Cas-
sidy. as Barry arranged himself on the divan.
“Gay is the high muckamuck of the telegraph
company — or high priest of the Atlantian Hermes
to the rabble. Quint manages the insurance com-
pany and runs my slave ranch for me. Clever
fellow. Make friends with him and he’ll give
you ideas where you can pick up some pin money
of your own. You gotta have a side line, you
know, to make any real dough working for that
lousy Anachron outfit. By the way, how’s old

BARRIUS, IMP.

kilmer doing? Still raving?”

"Oh, he’ll be all right when exports pick up
again,” said Barry, with what diplomacy he could
muster. “He was pretty sore after your starting
up such a good wheat and flour business that the
bottom dropped out of it all of a sudden, He
says the Romans never did have enough wheat,
and he wants to know how come?”

Cassidy chuckled and nudged Quint.

"Little family matter," he croaked. “My wife’s
uncle happens to be Procurator of Egypt and
holder of the grain monopoly. Naturally he
didn’t like the competition. So when Commodus
put a heavy duty on future grain — ”

“I thought you and the emperor were buddies,”
said Barry.

“So we are,” shrugged Cassidy, “but it’s give
and take, you know. I let him have his way about
the wheat and he lets me have my way about some
other things. It pays.”

In the next two hours Barry found out how
well it paid. By piecing together the scraps of
conversation he was able to guess at the work-
ings of several of Cassidy’s major rackets. Gains,
for example, was also the chief priest of the At-
lantian Temple of the Winds, close by which was
an ancient cave known as the Grotto of Boreas.
Concealed within it was a Diesel-driven ice plant
served only by Gay’s trusted slaves. Daily a cara-
van of wagons came and took away the blocks of
ice produced overnight — ice which brought a fine
price at the many public baths where the cool
rooms could be made really cool. The ice was
also much in demand at banquets, and had even
been used at the palace in novel forms of torture.

Barry had already guessed that enormous reve-
nues were derived from peddling the services of
the god Hermes, but he had not guessed all.
Hermes, being a god, did not necessarily serve all
comers, however large their offerings. Quint, in
the role of the god's messenger, systematically
censored the messages handled between various
parts of the empire. Therefore he and the rest
of the Cassidy gang knew weeks in advance of
military successes or reverses in the far provinces,
of the success or failure of important money crops,
of numl>er and worth of the emeralds and
pearhs brought up the Red Sea every year from
India. Therefore they knew how to buy and
sell in Rome to advantage. They had gone so
far as to establish an embryo stock exchange where
they dealt In futures to their immense profit.

Nor was tlaat all. The order for the fire-fight-
ing equipment that had so delighted Kilmer when
it first came up had been for another purpose
than he had imagined. Knowing the ever-present
dread of fire that haunted Rome, the Home Office
made the mistake of assuming that the initial
order was merely for demonstration purposes and

that other orders for larger amounts would shortly
follow. That they did not, Barry now learned,
was due to the organization of the Phoenix As-
surance Society. The PAS paid no loss indemni-
ties, but for the high premiums it collected it did
undertake to dispatch its well-trained gangs of
slave firemen to put out the fire on the premises
of a policyholder. Since they had pumpers and
hose and ladder wagons, and also maintained a
fire watch, they were usually successful. On
the other hand, the buildings of nonsubscribers
were left to burn. Enrollments were slow in the
beginning, but the judicious use of arson reme-
died that defect. Commodus himself, Barry
learned, was one of the stockholders. Cassidy
and company, having a strangle hold on the fire-
prevention business, wanted no more fire equip-
ment.

“Don’t you see, fella,” asked Cassidy, with
his usual leering wink, “how much better it is
this way? We get more in premiums every month
than I would get in commissions on a hundred
fire engines. Why be a sap? But you ain’t heard
nothing yet. You know all that afeverin I bought?
I’d have been an awful sucker if I had sold that
stuff over the counter at so much an ounce. It
cures malaria in one or two doses, and the ma-
laria stays cured. Right away I saw the right
set-up. There’s no gratitude to be had from a
man for curing him of anything, but plenty of
profit if you go about it using the old bean.”

As Barry listened his disgust grew. He learned
about the slave ranch. Every week hundreds of
emaciated and anaemic slaves were herded into
the place. Those broken-down slaves had been
bought in the open market by underlings of Quin-
tus for a paltry few hundred sesterces each, since
such invalid slaves were not worth their keep.
At the ranch they were rehabilitated. A few
shots of afeverin, a build-up diet rich in vita-
mins, and abundant rest did the rest. On the
face of it it looked like a humanitarian proposi-
tion. Actually it was anything but. For as soon as
the slaves were well and strong again and had been
taught a trade, they were displayed again on the
market for sale. That time, after only a few
months’ overhaul, they brought prices up in the
thousands.

“Not bad, eh?” said Cassidy. Then he asked
what ideas Barry had as to setting himself up in
a noncompeting racket. It was understood, of
course, that Cassidy and perhaps Commodus would
be cut in on anything new that was launched.

“Can’t think of one at the moment,” said Barry.
It looked as if Pat Cassidy and his Rome were
going to be hard nuts to crack. He wanted to
feel his way.

At the end of three months Barry’s distaste
for Rome and everything about it amounted to

ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION

almost a phobia. He had seen the profligate rich
throw money around in his own age. and he had
also seen distress and poverty. But the orgies
o£ the Roman wealthy and the sufferings of the
poor outdid anything he knew. Nor was there
in the annals of a grasping capitalism anything
to equal the unconscionable rapacity of the Roman
rich. Barry concluded that he would not live
in Rome if they gave him the place and allowed
him fifty weeks’ vacation a year. All of which
availed him nothing, for he committed the initial
error of doing well from the start. His protests
to Kilmer brought one unvarying response:

“Stick to it, you’re doing fine.” And then Kil-
mer would take what scant joy there was out of
that unrelished compliment by asking when he
was going to shove Cassidy off the perch and
send him up home.

Barry's original intentions had been good. He
started off with the idea of pepping up business
as speedily as possible for Kilmer’s sake. At the
same time he wanted to study local conditions and
find out just how firm Cassidy’s grip was on the
imperial machine. The answer to the latter was
that Cassidy was all-powerful. Likewise, in-
vulnerable. He was an artist at back-slapping and
soft-soaping; his instinct as to when to flatter.

when to brov/beat, and when to bribe was in-
fallible. Ho cared not a hoot how rich the other
fellow got so long as he got his. It made him
popular in Rome, where impoverished aristocrats-
fawned on him, and where the greedy wastrels
of the court were ready to make any concession
he demanded.

Barry saw that a frontal attack was out of the
question. So he set about to develop the legiti-
mate markets that hitherto had lacked appeal to
the scheming Cassidy. He pawed through the
many cases of sample materials that until then
stood untouched in the Ostia warehouse. He in-
duced Cassidy to go down there with him one
day and look them over, sketching out his plans
as he spoke of the possibilities in this and that.
Cassidy surprised him by agreeing vigorously
with all he said, and when Barry went to make
out the quantity requisitions Cassidy — in his
capacity of manager of the Roman branch— -signed
them without a murmur, On the contrary, there
was a curious crooked smile on his porcine face
as he scribbled his initials, and Barry thought
he caught a glint of cheap cunning in his piggish
eyes. But Barry filed the orders. It was a start.

The first to arrive were the ships laden with
asphalt, salamanders, rollers and spreading tools.

BARRIUS, IMP.

Barry had noticed on his trips between the capital
and the port that the roads, while excellent, were
primarily military roads. They were well built
and well drained, but they were surfaced with
slabs of hewn stone. Whenever the clumsy ve-
hicles of the day hit a joint it got a jolt. Barry
saw at once that all that was needed to make
them ideal highways was a thin topping of asphalt.
And once that was applied the way was open for
the introduction of lightweight vehicles such
as wire-wheeled, ball-bearing, rubber-tired wagons
for country use, and rickshas for the narrow
streets of the city proper.

Cassidy astonished him by appearing in per-
son on the dock while the schooners were being
discharged. He waddled into the warehouse
office, accompanied as always by his guards, and
handed Barry an order for one million sesterces.
It was for the paving material and tools.

“I thought you said the government would
pay twice this much,” said Barry, turning the
order over in his hands. A million sesterces
scarcely covered cost, freight and overhead. “Or
three times," amended Barry.

"They will. To me,” said Cassidy, blandly.
"I’m buying it for my construction company; it
has the contract to resurface the first two hundred
miles.”

“But — ”

“Listen, buddy, get wise to yourself. Kilmer
will be happy — the stuff is moving, ain’t it, and
the company breaking better than even? Why
should you and I lean over backward and let them
skim the cream. That's for us — me, and maybe
you.”

“But — ”

‘T figured we might need protection,” Cassidy
croaked on, “what with the chiselers here and in
case Kilmer tries to get tough again. So I had
a talk with the emperor and everything’s fixed.
You think patents are a good thing, don’t you?
Well, now we’ve got 'em. A pal of mine named
Flavius has been made Quaestor of Patents. I
took up our sample line and filed on ’em. That,
and a little grease to Flav did the trick. From
now on I’ve got the sole and exclusive right to
use or sell any of the things we bring in, see?
I’m your customer, see?”

Barry saw. He saw what Cassidy wanted him
to see. He saw more than that. He saw red. But
he kept his mouth shut. His opportunity had not
come; it was not even in sight. So he carried
on.

His next lesson in metropolitan politics came
when the rickshas were delivered. Cassidy had a
double strangle hold on those, for he not only
controlled their sale as patentee, but their use.
Barry had completely overlooked an old Roman
ordinance dating from Julius Caesar’s time for-

bidding the use of the streets by any wheeled
vehicle between the hours of dawn and dusk.
Cassidy swore that he was helpless to get the
edict repealed, but he did succeed in having it
modified. As amended the ukase read: "Wheeled
litters may be operated by approved persons.”
The only approved "person” turned out to be the
Capitol Rapid Transit Co., whose ownership Barry
had no trouble guessing.

He struggled on. He established a big depart-
ment store just off the Via Sacra and stocked it
well. He put in a line of kerosene lamps with
glass chimneys and braided cotton wicks, and
sold the oil to keep them lit. They were instantly
popular, replacing as they did the smelly and
nonluminous olive-oil burners theretofore used.
He introduced sugar which was at once bought
in vast quantities by the vintners to improve their
heavier wines. No longer were the ancients re-
stricted to the choice between vinegary clarets or
the sickish honey-sweetened variety. Hardware,
comprising all manner of tools, swords and dag-
gers, iron pipe, nails and so on, went well. Cos-
metics. especially perfumes, found an insatiable
demand. Romans had always used the latter with-
out stint, but since its base was olive oil and not
alcohol, it left them greasy and all too often
with an overriding rancid odor. In exchange for
those importations Barry sent back home ship-
loads of marble statuary, Greek pottery, and many
casks of the better wines and olive oils.

Cassidy kept his hands off the department store,
but for a price. Barry had to set him up in one
more monopoly — the press. Job presses, type,
ink, paper and other accessories were brought
down and the Daily Stentor was duly launched
upon an insatiable Roman reading public. Cassidy
erected billboards and soon the streets of the great
city were gay with lurid lithographs announcing
the coming gladiatorial contests or races at the
circus. Barry watched the growth of the print-
ing business with some disgust, then turned back
to his job of building up Anac’nron’s business.

He established a chain of soda fountains, im-
ported cigarettes, bananas, chocolate, tomatoes,
and many other novelties. Then he undertook to
try his hand at tempering the brutality of the
Romans. He was not forgetful of the company
motto — "Merchants, not Missionaries” — but he had
to live in Rome, and the all too frequent sound
of cheering welling up from the stands about
the blood pit of the Coliseum offended every
fiber of his being. Barry was not a tender-minded
man. He had participated in plenty of carnage,
but that had been in time of war and had at least
the merit of necessity. Not so the senseless
butchery that was committed under the name of
"games.” The feeding of huddled groups of
meek martyrs to ravenous beasts, or the fiendish
hacking away of one another’s limbs by gladia-

ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION

tors for no other purpose than to amuse a sadistic
and jaded mob was to Barry’s mind a crime against
nature. So, he' thought, the next step is to begin
the education of these people. They can learn
that games of strength and skill do not necessarily
have to be played in a wallow of gore.

“Why not?” remarked Cassidy, carelessly, when
Barry broached the matter of introducing foot-
ball. “It’s a good, rough game. The customers
ought to lap it up. I’ll speak to Quint about it.
He has a string of reconditioned gladiators I sold
him, and no doubt he’ll make ’em into a team and
back ’em against somebody else’s.”

It was soon arranged. Barry sent a hurry call
to home for balls and uniforms and then spent his
spare time for several weeks in coaching the new
teams. One day the Master of Games was there,
and after watching the drills and scrimmages for
a while, expressed great satisfaction with the new
idea.

“We’ve got it,” he assured Barry. “Just leave
the rest to us.”

In the period that intervened before the premiere
of the novel game Barry swelled with justifiable
pride whenever he saw the announcements of it
on Cassidy's many billboards. He even swallowed
his feelings when he received the imperial com-
mand to be present as the guest of honor. That
meant sitting in the imperial box beside the in-
famous Commodus, which also meant that he
would have to go early and see the whole show.
It was the preliminary massacres he dreaded to
witness, for he had no stomach for pointless
slaughter designed only to whip the crowd to the
proper level of frenzy for the introduction of
the main event. But he decided to make the per-
sonal sacrifice of enduring them for the sake of
the ultimate greater gain.

The preliminaries were a greater ordeal than
he had bargained for, and he found his revulsion
for things Roman climbing to new peaks. His
disgust now included the women as well, for they
appeared to be even more savagely bloodthirsty
than the men. The representatives of their sex
he loathed most were the so-called Vestal virgins.
He wondered whether their thumbs were so
jointed that they could only be turned downward.
But the most odious feature of the early games
was furnished by Barry’s own host — the vain
and boastful Commodus. From time to time he
rose in his box to display his consummate skill as
an archer. His arrow infallibly found the throat
or heart of whatever wild beast or luckless gladia-
tor he picked as a target. It was admirable shoot-
ing and the unfortunates were doomed to die in
any event, but it was the whimsical way in which
the emperor chose his victims that irked Barry
most. Of all the guests in the box he alone re-
frained from murmuring the expected phrases of

fulsome praise, a circumstance that did not go
unnoticed by Commodus. But the emperor chose
to restrain himself. A haughty but vindictive
look was all he visited on Barry then, but Barry
knew that from that moment he had a mortal
enemy.

By the time the arena had been cleared of the
corpses of the last of the earlier entertainers,
Barry was already sick with suppressed rage and
impotent pity. He could only grit his teeth and
clench his hands to await the verdict of the crowd
upon his own humane innovation. Trumpeters
and heralds came in. The announcements were
made, and Barry noted with some satisfaction
that he was named as the introducer of the new
“thrilling, stupendous, astounding spectacle
brought from the far isles of Hesperides.” Then
he sat back a little more at ease. A build-up like
that would help his game go over.

The gates were flung open, and the teams
marched in. Barry sat up abruptly as if jabbed
suddenly with a bayonet. He gasped. He stared
and stared and gasped again. Had it not been
for the announcement and the Master of Games
marching in the lead carrying a single gilded
football in his arms, Barry would never have
guessed that the game he was about to see had any
relation to football. He watched with horrified
eyes as the sides were taken and the line-up made.
There was no kickoff ; the ball was simply awarded
by the umpire after the quarterbacks tossed the
dice. The only other football-ish feature was
the goals — gilded baskets at opposite sides of
the arena.

The teams consisted of about a hundred men
on the side. Each fell in in two ranks, the first
crouching, the second standing behind with naked
swords in their hands. All wore heavy body
armor, spiked steel helmets, gaffs at their heels,
and daggers at their belts. A small cloud of
redan'i — lithe and agile gladiators armed with
nets and tridents — covered each end, evidently
for the purpose of discouraging end runs. But
it was the back formation that afforded the big
thrill. Each quarterback — and judging from the
delighted howls from the stands they must have
been popular champions — rode a mighty war
chariot whose wheels were fitted with murderous
revolving scythes. The other backs, of whom
there were about a dozen to the side, rode horses.
They carried lances and battleaxes hung at their
saddlebows.

There was a fanfare of trumpets, then a single
prolonged bray. As its hoarse note died, the
teams plunged into the fray. The quarterback
with the ball — ^which he carried in a net slung
over his shoulders — attempted an end run, the
cavalry of his backfield preceding and flanking
him by way of interference. Barry’s hands
gripped the stone rim of the box as he watched

BARRIUS, IMP.

the horror of the scrimmage that followed. His
senses reeled . . . the crash of impact as the two
lines met head-on . . . the dozens of individual
duels . . . the raging juggernaut plunging around
the left end . . . the futile efforts of the line-
men to break through the fringe of horsemen to
complete their tackle by disemboweling a chariot
horse. There followed the countercharge of the
defending chariot . . . the hideous melee that fol-
lowed when the two war buggies met head-on
only to capsize into a welter of spinning wheels,
kicking and screaming horses, slashing, stabbing
and gouging men. Many died before the ar-
mored referees fought their way into the midst
and declared the ball at rest. Barry hardly heard
the next braying of the trumpet, or the clarion
voice of the umpire calling out, “First down, forty
paces made good. Time out for replacements.”

Berry shuddered and closed his eyes. He al-
ready knew the routine of the scavenger squads
with their mules and flesh hooks. He did not want
to see any more. All he knew was that he had
failed and failed miserably. The wild howling
that rent the stands was proof of that. Rome was
at its pinnacle of delight. They had just wit-
nessed the opening gambit in what undoubtedly
would prove the fiercest and goriest form of en-
tertainment any had seen. They yelled and
stamped and called for “Marcus Barrius, the great
Atlantian gamester!” Commodus rose, acknowl-
edged the applause — which he naturally took for
himself, since he was the patron of the game —
and then, as a sop to the cheering multitude, took
the chaplet from his own curled locks and jammed
it on Barry’s head.

Barry stood stunned for a moment, paralyzed
with the shame and horror of his situation. His
and Commodus’ eyes locked and there was in their
mutual gaze all the venom of the basilisk, gener-
ated on the one part by sheer natural cruelty, on
the other by outraged honor. Barry raised his
hand very deliberately, snatched the accursed
wreath from his head and stamped on it. He con-
temptuously turned his back on the emperor and
stalked past the trembling other guests and out
of the box. He expected to be seized at any mo-
ment, but no order was given to stop him. Just
as he was almost clear of the place Commodus’
voice drifted to him above the pandemonium that
filled the tiered benches. It was shrill and taunt-
ing.

“We shall meet again, my dear, dear friend, in
this very place. And soon!” And the voice died
away in peals of merry, sardonic laughter.

Barry was in a dark and bitter mood. He had
walked the empty streets unmolested, but after he
reached his apartment he paced the floor for hours
in agitated thought. The jig was up; that was
clear. Now what do? For now that he had pub-

licly insulted Commodus his life was not worth
a plugged nickel if he stayed in Rome. Barry
knew that he had not only incurred the undying
imperial enmity, but the scorn of the populace
by showing his disgust at the shambles of the
arena. Moreover Cassidy was aligned against
him. The rupture with Commodus was not the
only one of the day; earlier Barry and Cassidy
had quarreled. Their break had come less than
an hour before the game.

It was about an effort Barry made to ameliorate
the ravages of the bubonic plague that was ter-
rorizing the poorer districts of the city. It had
raged spasmodically ever since being brought
back from Asia by returning soldiers several years
before, and the Romans in their ignorance were
doing nothing whatever about it.

“It would help,” suggested Barry, since Cas-
sidy’s co-operation was essential in view of his
being the Pontifex Maximus of his system of syn-
thetic Atlantian gods, “if you would dedicate one
of your temples to your god of healing . . . Aes-
culapius, wasn’t it? . . . and pass the word on
to the people that he craves live rats as sacrificial
offerings. Twenty rats a head would do it, I
think, and you could promise them relief from
the disease. The temple would have cages, and
an oil-burning incinerator — ”

“Are you crazy?” asked Cassidy. “What’s the
big idea? There’s no market for rat carcasses
that I know of. Why should I put aside a good
piece of real estate, pay priests salaries and all of
that to collect rats? 1 don’t get it.”

‘‘We stop the plague,” explained Barry pa-
tiently. “It’s very simple. Bubonic plague is a
rat’s disease. Rats have fleas. When a sick rat
dies his fleas have to hunt another home. If
they can’t find another rat, a human will do.
Then the human gets sick and dies. If you kill
the rats with the fleas still on ’em — zippo, no more
plague.”

Cassidy shook his head.

“Not practical. You’ve got something there,
but you don’t know how to handle it. When you
put out good money you expect to get something
back. Now here’s the way we’ll set the thing up — ”

Barry listened in disgusted amazement as his
piggish contemporary outlined the scheme.
Barry was to order a stock of disinfectants. Cas-
sidy would organize an exterminating company
and put on an educational campaign on his bill-
boards and in the paper. After that everything
would be set. For a substantial fee the new com-
pany would clear a house of rats. That way it
would pay.

“See?”

“No. I don’t see.” Barry did not bother to
conceal his loathing. The heaviest toll taken by
the plague was from the poorer districts, in the
slums that nestled in the valleys between the

ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION

hills, in the foul insulae where poor freedmen
boarded. Not one there could raise the fee and
it was rank nonsense to expect the grasping land-
lords to pay. Cassidy’s plan might make him a
little money, but could have no discernible effect
on the plague. All Barry’s pent-up hatred of the
man boiled over, and for five minutes he told him
what he thought of him. He pulled no punches
and the blunt language he used was appropriate
to his opinions. Barry had fought on five con-
tinents and the seven seas and he knew how to
express himself.

“That washes you up,” said Cassidy in cold
fury toward the end. “No man can talk like that
to Pat Cassidy and get away with it,” and flung
himself from the room.

Yes. Barry had good reason for the feeling
that his days in Rome were numbered. He was up
against a combination of ruthless power and un-
scrupulous wealth headed by two men he knew
were out to get him. His choice was narrow.
He could stay and take it, or he could cut and
run. An S O S to Kilmer would bring the little
shuttle for his getaway, but that was a course that
Barry firmly rejected. He did not see how he
could win in the coming fight, but he didn't like
a quitter. He wouldn’t go running to Kilmer
admitting failure and with his work undone, for
Kilmer had instructed him to unseat Cassidy
and ship him home. Instead of that, he had only
intrenched the man more firmly than ever. Barry
set his jaw. It was to be a hopeless fight, but
he would not run from it.

Five minutes later he was in the editorial rooms
of the Daily Stentor and at his crisp orders quail-
ing subeditors scurried about killing the issue
they were just about to put to bed. None dared
oppose him, for they were slaves and thought him
to be acting for their master. They knew the
slightest disobedience might bring them under
the lash.

“Scare head,” ordered Barry. “Now take this.”

For an hour he dictated. The trembling scribes
gasped as they took down the treasonable and
blasphemous words. They were between the devil
and deep blue sea; the whipping post on the one
hand, the chance of crucifixion on the other.
For Barry had decided to go the whole hog.

He lit into Cassidy first, revealing the workings
of his many rackets. He showed how any Roman
could rid himself of malaria at the cost of a few
small silver coins if afeverin were only on general
sale. He told how the Hermetic telegraph sys-
tem worked, of its exorbitant charges and the
misuse made of the messages intrusted to it. He
pointed out the iniquity of the fire protection
racket and its excessive cost. He recited his vain
efforts to have something done about the plague.
Then he dealt with some of the minor rackets.

Cassidy had taught several of his slaves some-
thing of plastic surgery with the result that they
carried on a shady side line. Freedmen or es-
caped slaves who had been branded on the fore-
head with the symbol for thief could go to Cas-
sidy’s and have the skins of their faces renewed
with unblemished foreheads. He mentioned, too,
the abuse of the supplies of Mercurochrome. That
had been ordered for surgical use for the army,
but instead was used to paint the faces of the
palace harlots. Barry was not sure what had
become of the dental chairs and forceps, drills
and the rest, but it had been hinted that they were
used for special guests in one of Commodus’ tor-
ture chambers.

That led him to Commodus and his connection
with the Cassidy outfit. Barry painted him as
the playboy he was, excoriated him for his con-
ceit and cruelty. He went out of his way to ridi-
cule his habit of descending to the floor of the
arena and fighting in person as a gladiator. Barry
knew that was a shot that would go home, for it
was the scandal of Rome. The old aristocrats
had shivered when Nero sang to public audi-
ences: now they had an emperor-gladiator — many
steps lower than a mere buffoon.

At length Barry came to the finish. He spent
the rest of the night seeing that the paper went
out in the form he wanted. At dawn he retired
to his apartment for what rest he could get. He
knew it would not be long before the soldiers
v/ould be coming for him.

It was a grizzled old centurion that made the
arrest. He brought a file of twenty soldiers with
him and dragged Barry protesting through the
streets. The destination was the palace. On the
way they passed the statue that Commodus had
recently erected in honor of himself in which he
was depicted as the reincarnation of the demi-
god Hercules. Barry glanced at it and his lip
*curled.

There was no trial. There was only a harangue
from Commodus. The essence of it was this:

“You have chosen to ridicule me as a fighter.
Very well. Five days hence we will meet in the
arena and see who is the better fighter. Choose
any arms you please so long as there is no metal
about you.”

That was all. Barry was led back to his apart-
ment. Soldiers were all over the place and he
was under close arrest, but within his own rooms
he was not interfered with. He sent off a long
dispatch to Kilmer, bringing him up to date on
happenings, making it clear that he was having
to fight in self-defense. The company’s rules
as to mixing it up with peoples of other ages
were adamant. If by any chance he should win,
he did not want to have another battle with the
boss over how he came to duel with an emperor.

BARRIUS, IMP.

The day set for the conflict Barry was hustled
off to the coliseum early in the morning. They
put him in a dark and filthy cell along with a
dozen others selected to fall beneath Commodus’
sword. All were going in the role of refiarius,
since the only feasible weapon they were allowed
was the net. Nothing else could possibly avail
against the emperor’s heavy body armor and hel-
met. But there was little hope among them.
Commodus was most dextrous at evading the net;
none had ever snared him. Nor did anyone wish
really to try. No one knew for certain what the
penalty for winning would be, but neither was
he anxious to find out.

Barry was dressed simply in cotton shorts
and singlet. He wore no helmet, carried no net
or other recognizable weapon. But in a little
sling there were three glass balls. He had chosen
those from among the sample items as being proba-
bly of the most real service. He had had them
sent down for demonstration, but his other duties
had prevented him getting around to them be-
fore. Now, he thought grimly, we’ll show them
off.

They could hear little while waiting in the
dungeons below the grandstand, but Barry knew
from what he did hear when the games got under
way. Later the guards came and took out his
cellmates a few at a time. Not one came back.
Barry surmised that his adversary was warming
up on a few easy victims. And no doubt he was
saving Barry to the last. Barry had not been
able to find out just what effect his published
broadside had had, but whatever its effect it must
certainly have made him a marked man. Proba-
bly half a million people fought for places to see
the bout of the day — Commodus versus his At-
lantian detractor.

Then Barry was out in the arena. Tumultuous
shouting filled the air and the seats were alive
with color and movement. Commodus stood in
the very center of the arena, while many spots
of bloody sand attested to the exercises he had
already completed. He waved a reddened sword
and shouted a derisive epithet. But he waited
cagily to see what Barry would do. Barry did
nothing for a minute or so, then advanced slowly
toward his adversary. So far his hands were
empty. Within ten paces of Commodus he stopped
and waited. Then Commodus gathered himself
for the charge, brandished his weapon, and
launched forward.

Barry had not been the star pitcher of his
Commando unit’s team for nothing. So quick that
the eye could hardly follow, he snapped one of
the glass balls out of the sling and hurled it
straight at Commodus. It struck him squarely on
the visor of his helmet. There was a puff of
whitish vapor, and then Commodus was on his
knees, blubbering and praying. His sword

dropped to the sand and the buckler rolled away.
But the gladiator emperor knelt and wept. Like
a big wind, a monumental gasp went up from the
tiered spectators. Commodus had yielded with-
out a stroke being delivered! He was begging
for mercy!

Barry waited a discreet few seconds, then strode
forward and picked up the fallen sword. The
gas bomb he used contained a new modification
of the old tear gas. It not only brought tears by
the usual reaction, but engendered the emotions
that normally accompanied tears. It dissipated
rapidly in the open, but those who breathed it
were under the effects for hours, Barry knew
that Commodus would continue to grovel and
snuffle for some time. He disregarded the whim-
pering figure at his feet and looked to the box
for the verdict. To his astonishment it was
thumbs down! A great hush had fallen on the
multitude, for the brown-clad mob in the upper
seats were awed by the unprecedented disaster.
But the knights and nobles in the boxes, not for-
getting the pious Vestals, were clamoring for
the victim's blood.

Something clicked within Barry. He had been
calm until then ; now he knew fury. What a
people, to expect him to stab a man to death in
cold blood ( He stared up at their relentless faces.
Each probably had his own excellent reason for
wishing Commodus' death, but Barry did not in-
tend to be the one to gratify them. On the con-
trary, he estimated the range carefully, then
hurled his remaining two bombs — one into the
imperial box, the other high up in the stands.
He waited silently for their effect.

It was stupendous. In another instant the
aristocrats were shedding tears, beseeching mercy
upon themselves, Commodus, anybody and every-
body that might be in need of it. The frigid
Vestals melted. For once their thumbs went up
as the salty water rolled down their cheeks.
Even the soulless Cassidy, who had come to wit-
ness his assistant’s murder, blubbered some. But
it was in the stands where the unexpected hap-
pened. All hell broke loose. They went crazy.
No Roman had ever seen compassion; no Roman
could understand it. Yet there were among
them some of the city’s outstanding fight fans
— men who loved their gore and knew good slaugh-
ter when they saw it — and these hard-boiled eggs
were sniffling like whipped children, calling:
“Don't hurt him, oh, don’t hurt him, please, hon-
orable Barrius.” The inevitable succeeded. Riots
broke out in every section. In two minutes a
free-for-all was raging all over.

Barry cast one contemptuous look about, hurled
the sword from him, and stalked disgustedly out
of the arena. Two guards pounced on him at the

ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION

gate and led him away to a cell, but he did not
care overly. He had shot his wad and there was
no more to do. But he was curious as to the
outcome. He only hoped that he would learn
about it before they finished him off, and also
added the hope that the process of being finished
off would riot be too messy or take too long.

He knew the worst when they led him into the
torture chamber. Most of the stuff hanging about
were the same old chestnuts men have used for
ages — whips, brands, pincers and the like, but the
instrument of which they were most proud Barry
recognized at once. It was a gleaming dental
chair, and a grinning executioner was fitting a
drill to its socket. A helper stood by to pedal
the gadget. Rows of wicked-looking shiny for-
ceps, hooks and crooked wires hung nearby.

“This won’t hurt,” soothed the fiend, as the
attendants strapped Barry into the chair. “Not
like knocking ’em out. It just takes longer.”

Somebody stuck a wedge into Barry’s mouth
and the executioner closed up with his drill
a-whirring. There was an interruption. The door
burst open and a high official entered. It was a
tribune of the Praetorian Guard.

“Hold everything,” he said. “They want to
examine this man before the senate. The honor-
able Patricius Cassidus says that he used an At-
lantian gas and they want to know more about it.
Make ready to take him there at once, and see
that he has some of the magic gas with him.”

Barry relaxed. Anything was welcome after
what he had steeled himself for. But gas? There
wasn’t any more, and it would take him days to
get some. At that, he couldn’t see how it would
help his cause to reduce the august senate to a
state of weepy soddenness. Then his eye lit on
a contraption in the corner. It was a little buggy-
like affair carrying a steel flask of oxygen and
another of nitrous oxide. From the reading of
the gauges it was clear that they had never been
used, probably from ignorance. But as part of
Anachron’s dental equipment, there they were.

“This is more of the gas I used,” said Barry,
indicating the nitrous oxide container. “Have
that brought along.”

The session in the senate did not last a great
while. Before he reached the hall Barry learned
that in the pandemonium raging after he left
the arena, a wrestler named Narcissus, who had
some grievance against Commodus, had obeyed
that section of the mob who were demanding that
he be put to death. Narcissus at once performed
the job by throttling him in his best professional
manner. In consequence, by the time Barry was
conducted into the chamber, the senators had
other and more important things on their minds.
They were whispering among themselves as to

how they would line up behind this or that candi-
date for the emperorship. Cassidy was of course
one of the outstanding candidates. It was of him
and other contenders that they were thinking
when Barry’s guard brought him in. But they
snapped out of their huddles when Barry was
arraigned before the house.

“You are charged with using a noxious gas to
defeat our emperor,” said the president sternly.
“We demand to know what that gas is.”

“Here it is,” said Barry blandly, cracking a
valve. There was a hissing, and he leaned over
and sniffed. He straightened up, smiling hap-
pily. “A lovely gas, really. What I took to the
coliseum must have gone sour with the heat.”

‘Xet me smell that,” demanded Cassidy, step-
ping forward. Now Cassidy, while a versatile
fellow, did not know the conventional marking for
gas carboys, so he could not know until he took
a whiff what sort of gas it was. Even then he
didn’t recognize it. But he did like it. It gave
him a lift. He took another drag. Then he be-
gan to laugh and dance a little.

“Suwell, deelightful,” he babbled, “have a sniff
on me, fellows.”

Curious senators crowded up, a wee bit doubt-
ful, but wanting to know. But as each drew
nearer, his doubt melted. He beamed, he giggled
or burst into ribald song. Others capered, em-
bracing anyone who came near. In a very few
minutes it was a gay and happy party. All were
drunk as lords. Cuckoo. Absolutely. And not
the least of them was Barry. Indeed, in a mo-
ment the gas got the best of him and for a little
while he passed out.

When he came to he found himself the center
of a rollicking back-slapping crowd. He seemed
to be popular. They liked him. But they were
saying strange things to him. Were they kid-
ding? For in their hilarious mood it was hard
to judge. Yet he gathered that in their elation
generated by the laughing gas they had dis-
missed any complaint against him. They had
gone further. They had elected him to the vacant
office of emperor.

“Ave, Caesar,” they shouted, stamping up and
down, “Hail, Barrius, Imperator Romanorum!
Wheel Yippee!”

Barry was still a bit woozy himself, so he did
not fully grasp what had been done to him. Then
it began to dawn on him. He backed away from
his enthusiastic admirers with growing concern
on his face. Oh golly, golly, golly. He had
played hell now! Rule G — 45607! “Whoever ac-
cepts any public office . . . et cetera, et cetera . . .
will be cut off.” Owl

“Barrius, Imperator, huh?” groaned Barry.
“That sinks me.”

THE END.

THE CAVE

By P. Schuyler Miller

# On Mars the laws and customs of existence must be different,
and when a dozen of a dozen races seek shelter in a cave—

Illustrated by Fax

The cave measured less than a hundred feet
from end to end.

It opened at the base of a limestone ridge which
rose like a giant, rounded fin out of the desert.
Its mouth was a flat oval, a shallow alcove scoured
out of the soft stone by wind and sand. Near one
end a smooth-walled tunnel sloped gently back
into the ridge. Twenty feet from the entrance it
turned sharply to the right and in a few feet
swung back to the left, paralleling its original
course. Here it leveled out into a broad, flat
channel not more than four feet high. This was
the main chamber of the cave.

The big room, like the rest of the cave, had
been leached out of the limestone by nmning
water, long before. The water had followed a less
resistant seam in the rock, dissolving out a pas-
sage whose low ceiling rose and fell a little with
irregularities in the harder stratum overhead,
whose floor was flat and water-polished in spots
and in others buried under a fine yellow day. A
little past the midpoint the room opened out into
a kind-of inverted funnel in which a tall man could
stand erect, a tapering chimney vdiich quickly
dwindled to a shaft barely big enough to admit
a man’s hand. Here the floor of the cave was

ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION

lower and the walls, which had drawn together
until they were less than ten feet apart, were
ribbed and terraced with flowstone.

Beyond the chimney the ceiling dropped sud-
denly to within a few inches of the floor. By
lying flat on his face and squirming along be-
tween the uneven layers of rock a thin man might
have entered here. After measuring his length
perhaps three times he would have been able to
raise himself on one elbow and twist into a sitting
position, his back against the end wall of the
cave and his head and shoulders wedged into a
crevice which cut across the main passage at right
angles. This crevice lay directly under the high-
est part of the ridge and vanished into darkness
above and on either side. Water must at one
time have flowed through it, for the harder sili-
cious layers in the limestone stood out on the
walls in low relief like flne ruled lines drawn in
sooty black. Not even air stirred in it now.

Twenty feet in the winding entry — six or eight
feet at the bend — another thirty to the chimney
and fifteen or twenty more to the back wall; it
was a small cave. It was also very old.

The limestone of which the ridge was formed
was perhaps the oldest exposed rock on the sur-
face of that small old world. It had been laid
down in fairly deep water at a time when there
were seas where there were only deserts now.
There had been life in those seas; where wind or
water had worn away the softer lime, their fossil
bodies stood out from the surface of the gray
stone. There were fluted shells like glistening
black trumpets — swarms of tiny big-eyed things
with fantastically shaped armor and many sprawl-
ing arms— long ropes of delicate, saw-edged weed
whose fossil tissues were still stained a dull pur-
ple— occasionally fragments of some larger thing
like an armored, blunt-headed fish. They had been
alive, swarming and breeding in the shallow sea,
when Earth was no more than a scabbed-over globe
of slowly jelling flame.

The cave itself was very old. It had been made
by running water, and it was a long time since
there was much water on the dying world. Water,
sour with soil acids leached from the black humus
of a forest floor, had seeped down into the net-
work of joint-planes which intersected the flat-
lying limestone beds, eating away the soft stone,
widening cracks into crannies and crannies into
high-arched rooms, rushing along the harder strata
and tunneling through the softer ones, eventually
bursting out into the open again at the base of
a mossy ledge and babbling away over the rocks
to join a brook, a river, or the sea.

Millions of years had passed since there were
rivers and seas on Mars.

Things change slowly underground. After a
cave has died — after the source of moisture which

created it have shifted or dried up — it may lie
without changing for centuries. A man may set
his foot in the clay of its floor and go away, and
another man may ct>me a hundred or a thousand
or ten thousand years afterward and see his foot-
print there, as fresh as though it had been made
yesterday. A man may write on the ceiling with
the smoke of a torch, and if there is still a little
life in the cave and moisture in the rock, what
he has written will gradually film over with clear
stone and last forever. Rock may fall from the
ceiling and bury portions of the floor, or seal off
some rooms completely. Water may return and
wash away what has been written or coat it with
slime. But if a cave has died — if water has
ceased to flow and its walls and ceiling are dry —
things seldom change.

Most of the planet’s surface had been desert
for more millions of years than anyone has yet
estimated. From the mouth of the cave its dunes
and stony ridges stretched away like crimson
ripples left on a beach after a wave has passed.
They were dust rather than sand: red, ferric dust
ground ever finer by the action of grain against
grain, milling over and over through the centuries.
It lay in a deep drift in the alcove and spilled
down into the opening of the cave; it carpeted
the first twenty-foot passage as with a strip of
red velvet, and a little of it passed around the
angle in the tunnel into the short cross-passage.
Only the very finest powder, well-nigh impalpable,
hung in the still air long enough to pass the
second bend and reach the big room. Enough had
passed to lay a thin, rusty mantle over every
horizontal surface in the cave. Even in the black
silt at the very back of the cave, where the air
never stirred, there was a soft red bloom on the
yellow flowstone.

The cave was old. Animals had sheltered in it.
There were trails trodden into the dry clay, close
to the walls, made before the clay had dried.
There was no dust on these places — animals still
followed them when they needed to. There was
a mass of draggled, shredded stalks and leaves
from some desert plant, packed into the cranny
behind a fallen rock and used as a nest. There
were little piles of excreta, mostly the chitinous
shells of insectlike creatures and the indigestible
cellulose of certain plants. Under the chimney the
ceiling was blackened by smoke, and there were
shards of charcoal and burned bone mixed with
the dust of the floor. There were places where the
clay had been chipped and dug away to give more
headroom, or to make a flat place where a bowl
could be set down. There were other signs as well.

The grak reached the cave a little after dawn.
He had been running all night, and as the sun
rose he had seen the shadow of the ridge drawn
in a long black line across the crimson dunes, and

THE CAVE

turned toward it. He ran with the tireless lope of
the desert people, his splayed feet sinking only a
little way into the soft dust where a man of his
weight would have floundered ankle deep.

He was a young male, taller than most of his
kind, better muscled and fatter. His fur was
sleek and thick, jet black with a pattern of rich
brown. The colors in his cheek patches were
fresh and bright, and his round black eyes shone
like disks of polished coal.

He had been a hunter for less than one season.
His tribe was one of the marauding bands which
summered in the northern oases, raiding down
into the lowlands in winter when the dry plateau
became too cold and bare even for their hardy
breed. It had fared better than most, for it had
had little contact with man. The grak carried a
knife which he had made for himself out of an
eight-inch bar of beryllium copper, taken in his
first raid. It was the only human thing he owned.
Its hilt was of bone, intricately carved with the
clan sjmibols of his father-line; its burnished blade
was honed to a wicked double edge. It was the
finest knife any of the desert folk had ever seen,
and he had had to fight for it more than once.
The desert tribes retained the old skills of metal
working which the softer-living pastoral green-
landers had forgotten, and his tribe, the Begar,
were among the best of the dryland smiths.

He wore the knife tucked into the short kilt
of plaited leather which was his only garment.
The Old One of his father-line had given it to him
on the day he became a hunter and could no longer
run naked like a cub. It was soft and pliable with
long wear and oiled to a mahogany brown almost
as dark and rich as his own chest patterns. There
were black stains on it which he knew were blood,
for the Old One had been one of the fiercest slay-
ers of his line and the kilt had come down to him
from an even greater warrior in his own youth.
The very pattern in which the thin strips of zek
hide were woven had lost its meaning, though it
undoubtedly had been and still was of great virtue.

It was cold in the shadow of the ridge, and the
grains long fur fluffed out automatically to provide
extra insulation. He looked like a big black owl
as he stood scanning the western sky. sniffing the
wind with his beaklike nose. There was a tawny
band low on the horizon, brightening as the sun
rose. He had smelled a storm early in the night,
for he had all the uncanny weather-wiseness of
his race and was sensitive to every subtle change
in the quality of the atmosphere. He had started
for the nearest arm of the greenlands, intending to
claim the hospitality of the first village he could
find, but the storm front was moving faster than
he could run. He had seen the ridge only just in
time.

He had recognized the place as he approached,
though he had never seen it and none of his tribe

had visited this part of the desert for many sea-
sons. Such landmarks were part of the education
of every dryland cub, and until they had become
thoroughly ingrained in his wrinkled young brain
he could not hope to pass the hunter’s tests and
win a hunter’s rights. The cave was where he
had known it would be, and he clucked softly with
satisfaction as he saw the weathered symbol carved
in the stone over the opening. The desert people
had long ago discarded the art of writing, having
no use for it, but the meaning of certain signs
had been passed down as a very practical part of
their lore. This was a cave which the grak’s own
forefathers had used and marked.

He studied the signs in the dust around the
entrance of the cave. He was not the first to seek
shelter there. The feathery membranes of his nose
unfolded from their horny sheath, recording the
faint scents which still hung in the thin air.
They confirmed what his eyes had told him. The
cave was occupied.

The wind was rising fast. Red dust devils
whirled ahead of the advancing wall of cloud.
Red plumes were streaming from the summit of
every dune. Making the sign of peace-coming,
the grak stooped and entered the cave. Beyond
the second bend in the passage was darkness which
not even his owl’s eyes, accustomed to the desert
nights, could penetrate. However, he did not
need to see. The sensitive organs of touch which
were buried in the gaudy skin of his cheek patches
picked up infinitesimal vibrations in the still air
and told him accurately where there were ob-
stacles. His ears were pricked for the slightest
sound. His nose picked up a mixture of odors—
his own characteristic scent, the dry and slightly
musty smell of the cave itself, and the scents of
the other creatures with which he would have to
share it.

He identified them, one by one. There were
four or five small desert creatures which had more
to fear from him than he from them. There was
one reptilian thing which under other circum-
stances might be dangerous, and which still might
be if the peace were broken. And there was a zek.

The carnivore was as big and nearly as intelli-
gent as the tribesman himself. Its kind waged
perpetual war on the flocks of the greenland peo-
ple, and rarely visited the oases, but when one did
wander into the desert it was the most dreaded
enemy of the dryland tribes. It stole their cubs
from beside their very campfires and attacked full-
grown hunters with impunity. Its mottled ‘pelt
was the choicest prize a hunter could bring back
as proof of his prowess. To some of the more
barbaric tribes of the north it was more than just
a beast— it was His emissary.

A sudden gust from the passage at his back told
the grak that the storm was breaking. In a matter

ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION

of minutes the air would be unbreathable outside.
Softly, so as not to arouse the savage beast’s suspi-
cions, he began to murmur the ritual of the peace.
His fingers were on the hilt of his knife as he
began, but as the purring syllables went out into
the hollow darkness, his nostrils told him that the
fear-odor was diminishing. Somewhere in the
dark a horny paw scuffed on the dry clay and
there was an instant reek of terror from some of
the smaller things, but the zek made no sign.
It was satisfied to keep the peace. Moving cau-
tiously, the grak found a hollow in the wall near
the entry and sat down to wait, squatting with his
knees tucked up close under his furry belly, the
hard rock at his back. The knife he laid on the
floor beside his hand where it would be ready
if he needed it. For a time his senses remained
keyed to fever pitch, but gradually his tenseness
eased. They were all grekka here — all living
things, united in the common battle for existence
against a cruel and malignant Nature. They knew
the law and the brotherhood, and they would keep
the truce as long as the storm lasted. Gradually
the nictitating lids slipped across his open eyes
and he sank into a half-sleep.

Harrigan blundered into the cave by pure luck.
He knew nothing about Mars or its deserts except
what the Company put in its handbook, and that
was deimn little. He was a big man and a strong
man, born in the mountains with a more than or-
dinary tolerance for altitude, and he had had to
spend less than a week in the dome before they
shifted him to the new post in the eastern Sabaeus.
He did what he was told and no more than he was
told, laid away his pay every week in anticipation
of one almighty spree when they brought him in
at the next opposition, and had nothing but con-
tempt for the native Martians. Grekka they were
called, and that was all he knew or cared about
them. To him they looked like animals and they
were animals, in spite of the fact that they could
talk and build houses and kept herds of peg-legged
monstrosities which seemed to serve as cattle.
Hell — parrots could talk and ants kept cattle!

Harrigan had been a miner on Earth. He was
that here, but he couldn’t get used to the idea that
plants could be more valuable than all the copper
and tungsten and carnotite in the world. The
desert and its barren red hills nagged at him, and
whenever he could get time off he explored them.
The fact that he found only rocks and sand did
nothing to extinguish his sullen conviction that
there was treasure incalculable here somewhere if
only the damned natives would talk or the Com-
pany would listen to a man who knew minerals
better than the big shots knew the swing of their
secretaries hips.

The fact was, of course, as the Company knew
very well, that Martian mineral deposits had been

exhausted by a native Martian civilization pursu-
ing its inevitable way to an inevitable end at a
time when Adam and Eve probably had tails.
That the descendants of that civilization were still
alive, even on a basis of complete savagery, spoke
volumes for the stamina of the native race. Such
arguments, however, would have meant less than
nothing to a man of Harrigan’s type. There were
mines on Earth. There were mines on the Moon.
Hell — there were mines on Mars!

This time he had overstayed his luck. To him
the low yellow wall of cloud on the western hori-
zon was only a distant range of hills which he
might some day visit and where he might find
wealth enough to set him up in liquor for the rest
of his life. He had spent the night in the cab
of his sand car, and it was not until the clouds
were a sullen precipice towering halfway up the
sky that he understood what he was heading into.
He swung around and headed back, but by then
it was too late.

When the storm hit it was like night. The air
was a semisolid mass through which the sand car
wallowed blindly with only its instrument board
to show where it was going. Dust swiftly clogged
the air intake and he had to take out the filters,
put on his mask, and hope for the best. It didn’t
come. In seconds the air inside the cab was a
reddish mist and dust was settling like fine red
pepper on every exposed surface. The wind
seized the squat machine and rocked it like a
skiff in a typhoon, but Harrigan could only hang
on, peer red-eyed through dust-coated goggles at
his dust-covered instruments, and wonder where
he was.

The floundering car climbed painfully to the
top of a monster dune, pushed its blunt snout out
over the steep leading edge, slewed violently
around and started down. Harrigan yanked de-
spairingly at the steering levers j they were packed
tight with dust and refused to move. He did not
see the ridge until the car smashed head on into it.
There was a despairing gurgle from the engine, a
last clatter of broken bearings, and the car stopped.
At once sand began to pile up behind and around
it, and Harrigan, picking himself up off the floor
of the cab, saw that if he didn’t get out fast he
would be buried where he sat.

He struggled out on the lee side of the car into
a gale that bit into him like an icy knife. He
could not see the car when he had taken one step
away from it. The dust drove through every seam
and patch of his clothes and Altered in around the
edges of his mask. It was sucked into his mouth
and nose and gritted under his swollen eyelids. It
was everywhere, and in no time it would smother
him.

The car was lost, though he was probably less
than ten feet from it. The wind screamed past

THE CAVE

him in unholy glee, tearing at every loose flap on
his coat, chilling him to the bone. He took half
a dozen blundering steps, knee-deep in the soft
dust, stumbled, and came down on his knees at the
foot of the cliff. His outthrust hands met solid
rock. He struggled forward on his knees and
peered at it through crusted goggles. It was
limestone, and where there was limestone there
might be a cave. Foot by foot he felt his way
along the uneven surface of the ridge until sud-
denly it dropped away in front of him, he stag-
gered forward, and fell on his hands and knees in
the entrance of the cave.

His head had clipped the low overhang as he
fell and it was a minute or two before he realized
where he was. Almost automatically, then, he
crawled ahead until his skull rammed hard into
another wall. He sat gingerly back on his heels
and clawed at his mask. It was completely
plugged with dust and utterly useless. He lifted
it off his face and took a slow breath. There was
dust in the air — plenty of it — but he could breathe.

He groped about him in the pitch dark, found
an opening in the right-hand wall, and crawled in.
Almost immediately there was another sharp turn
and the passage suddenly opened out on either
side and left him crouching at the entrance of
what he knew must be a good-sized room.

Harrigan knew caves too well to take chances
with them. What lay ahead might be a room or
it might be a pit dropping to some lower level.
He had a feeling that it was big. He found the
corner where the left-hand wall swung back,
moved up against it, moistened his lips with a
thick, dry tongue, and shouted:

•‘Hoy I”

The echo rattled back at him like gunfire. The
place was big. but not too big. What he needed
now was water and a light.

He had both. Dust had worked in around the
stopper of his cante-jn until he could barely start
the threads, but one last savage twist of his power-
ful fingers did the trick. There wasn’t much left.
He let a few drops trickle over his tongue and
down his throat, wiped the caked dust off the
threads with a finger, and screwed the cap back
on. These storms lasted for days sometimes, and
it was all the water in the world as far as he was
concerned.

Light came next. Harrigan had spent too much
time underground to be afraid of the dark, but it
was plain common sense to want to see what you
were getting into. Harrigan hated mysteries. If
he knew what he was facing he could fight his
way through anything, but he hated blind fum-
bling and he hated the dark.

Enough water had evaporated from the open
canteen in the minute or two he had had the cap
off to appreciably raise the moisture content of
the cave — at least for the Martians. To their acute

senses it was the equivalent of a heavy fog. A
few feet away in the blackness the grak awoke
with a start. Farther back in the cave one of the
small animals stirred eagerly. And the zek
sneezed.

Harrigan’s blundering approach had roused the
occupants of the cave, and every eye, ear and nose
had been trained on him when he appeared. One
rodentlike creature made a panicky rush as it got
his scent, only to freeze in terror as it nearly
bumped into the zek. The peace, for the moment,
was suspended — a new factor had entered the
situation and a new equilibrium must be reached.
They quietly awaited developments.

Harrigan had missed all this preliminary activ-
ity in his efforts to find out where he was, rub the
dust out of his eyes, and get a few drops of water
down his parched gullet. But when the zek
sneezed, the sudden sound was Hke an explosion
in his ears. In the dead silence which followed
he could clearly hear the sound of quiet breathing.
It was close to him, and it came from more than
one place. He had to have a light!

There should have been a torch in the pocket of
his coverall. There wasn’t. He had lost it or
left it in the car. He had a lighter, though. He
ripped feverishly at the zipper of his coverall. It
slid open a few inches with a sound like the
crackle of lightning and jammed. Sweat dripping
from his forehead he sat back on bis heels and
fumbled for his gun, but there was no movement
from the things in the dark. Slowly and softly
he slipped two fingers into his pocket and found
the lighter. Leveling the gun at the blank black-
ness in front of him he lifted the lighter above his
head and flipped off the cap.

The burst of yellow flame was dazzling. Then
he saw their eyes— -dozens of little sparks of
green and red fire staring out of the dark. As his
own eyes adjusted he saw the grak, huddled like
a woolly black gargoyle in his corner. The Mar-
tian’s huge round eyes were watching him
blankly, his grinning mouth was slightly open
over a saw-edged line of teeth, and his
pointed ears were spread wide to catch every
sound. His beaklike, shining nose and bright
red cheek patches gave him the look of a
partly plucked owl. He had a wicked-looking
knife in his spidery fingers.

Harrigan’s gaze flickered around the circle of
watching beasts. He knew nothing of Martian
animals, except for the few domesticated creatures
the greenlanders kept, and they made a weird as-
sortment. They were mostly small, ratty things
with big eyes and feathery antennae in place of
noses. Some of them were furred and some had
horny or scaly armor. All of them were variously
decorated with fantastic collections of colored
splotches, crinkled horns, and faceted spines

ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION

which presumably were attractive to themselves
or their mates. At the far end of the cave, curled
up in a bed of dry grass, was a lean splotched
thing almost as big as the little native which stared
at him with malevolent red eyes set close together
over a grinning, crocodilian snout. As he eyed it,
it yavTned hideously and dropped its head on its
crossed forepaws— -paws like naked, taloned
hands. It narrowed its eyes to crimson slits and
studied him insolently from under the pallid lids.
It looked nasty, and his fingers closed purpose-
fully over the butt of his gun.

The grakfs cackle of protest stopped him. The
only word he could make out was bella — peace.
He knew that because he had a woman named
Bella back in New York, or he had had before he
signed on with the Company. Besides, it was
part of the spiel you were supposed to rattle off
every time you talked to one of the damned little
rats. It was all the Martian he knew, so he spat
it out, keeping one eye on the other beast.

This was the first man the grak had ever seen.
It was a monstrous-looking thing, wrapped in
layer after layer of finely plaited fabric which
must have taken his mates many years to weave,
even if their clumsy fingers were as deft as those
of the greenlanders, who occasionally did such
things. A thrilling philosophical problem was
teasing the grak's young brain. Was or was not
this man of the grekka?

To a native Martian the term grekka means
literally “living things.” Any creature native to
the planet is a grak; all of them, separately or
collectively, are grekka. The first men to come
in contact with the native race heard the word
used to designate the Martians themselves and
assumed that it was the Martian equivalent of
“men.” Graziani, of course, as an anthropologist
of note, immediately realized the truth of the
matter — the situation is duplicated again and again
among human aborigines — but the label stuck.
Nor did that matter too much, for grekka did in-
clude the natives and made perfectly good sense
when it was used as men proceeded to use it.
What did matter was that the word was also the
key to the whole elaborate structure of Martian
psychology.

Millions of years of unceasing struggle with the
forces of an inclement environment on a swiftly
maturing and rapidly dying planet have ingrained
in the native Martian race, greenlanders and dry-
landers alike, the fundamental concept that Na-
ture is their undying enemy. Life for them is a
bitter fight against overwhelming odds, with an
invisible foe who will use every possible means
to grind out the little spark of ego in each round,
furry Martian skull. You find it in the oldest
legends: always the wily native hero is outwitting
— there is no other word for it — the evil purposes

of the personified, malignant Universe.

Grekka is the ultimate expression of this grim
philosophy. In the battle for life all living things
— all grekka — are brothers. No Martian would
ever dispute the theory of evolution — it is the very
core of his existence that all beasts are brothers.
That is a somewhat oversimplified statement of
the fact, for from there on grekka becomes entan-
gled in the most elaborate maze of qualifications
and exceptions which a once highly civilized race
has been able to devise over a period of millions
of years. Your native Martian, drylander or green-
lander. will help his brother beast whenever the
latter is clearly losing out in a battle with
Nature, but there are certain things which the
individual is supposed to be able to do for him-
self if he is not to give unholy satisfaction to
Him — the Great Evil One — the personification of
the universal doom which pours unending mis-
fortune on all grekka alike.

The distinction is one of those things which no
logician will ever be able to work out. It is one
thing for the desert tribes and something else for
the lowlanders. The Begar will draw the line at
something which is a sacred duty of every Corub,
in spite of the fact that the two tribes have lived
side by side on a more or less friendly basis for
generations. One clan — even one father-line —
may and must act in ways which no other clan
on Mars may duplicate without eternally losing a
varying number of points in its game with Him
and His aids.

What puzzled the young grak of the cave was
whether man — specifically Harrigan — was grekka.
If he was, he was an innate member of the
brotherhood of living things and subject to its
laws. If he wasn’t, then he could only be a per-
sonification or extension of the inimical First
Principle Himself, and hence an inherent enemy.
Since the time of Graziani and the Felmming ex-
pedition every Martian native, individual by in-
dividual and tribe by tribe, has had to make this
decision for himself, and by it govern his further
relations with humanity. The Begar had had too
little contact with mankind to have needed to
make such a decision as a tribe. Now the young
grak decided to reserve judgment, keep his eyes
open, and let the man prove himself by his
further actions.

Harrigan, of course, knew absolutely nothing of
all this. It would probably not have mattered if
he had. What some damned animal thought about
the Universe was nothing to him.

For a moment there had been death in the air.
Now the tension was vanishing. The smaller ani-
mals were settling down again, the little grak
grinning and nodding as he squatted down in the
corner. Only the zek’s slitted eyes were still
studying him with cold indifference. The damned

THE CAVE

nightmare was curled up in the one place in the
cave where a man could stand up! Harrigan gave
it eye for eye, and all the little furry and scaly
creatures lifted their heads and watched them
while the grak blinked worriedly. They could all
smell the hostility between the two. The zek
yavmed again, showing an evil double line of
knife-edged fangs and a leprous white gullet, and
flexed the mighty muscles which lay like slabs
of molded steel across its massive shoulders.
Harrigan sat glumly down where he was, his back
against the cold stone, his gun on the floor beside
him, the lighter wedged into a crack in the rock
between his feet.

Outside the storm was at its height. The far-
off screaming of the wind echoed and re-echoed
in the big room. Puffs of red dust drifted in out
of the darkness, and the flame of the lighter wav-
ered and danced. In the occasional lulls, the only
sound in the cave was their steady breathing.
Every eye, Harrigan knew, was on him. He was
the intruder here, and they were wary of him.
Let ’em be! A man was something to be afraid
of on this damned little dried-up world!

He glowered back at them, making up malicious
fantasies about their probable habits. There were
plenty of fancy stories going the rounds about
how these Martians went at things. He grinned
sardonically at the little grak as he recalled one
particularly outrageous libel. The grak smiled
reassuringly back at him. This man was a hideous
travesty of a thing, but he was keeping the peace.

Harrigan sized up the cave. It wasn’t a bad
hole as caves went. It was dry, the angle in the
passage kept the dust out, and it was big enough
so a man could stretch. With a fire and water he
could last as long as the storm would.

There had been a fire, he noticed, under the
chimney at the far end of the cave. There was
soot on the ceiling, and the rock had the crum-
bled look of burned limestone. It was too close
to the big beast for comfort, though. That was
a wicked-looking brute if there ever was one.
Better leave him be — but if he tried to start any-
thing, James Aloysius Harrigan would show him
who was tough!

A gust stronger than any that had come before
bent the thin flame of the lighter far over, drawing
it out into a feeble yellow thread, Harrigan bent
quickly and sheltered it with his cupped palms.
It seemed smaller and duller than when he had
first lit it. He picked up the lighter and shook it
close to his ear. It was almost dry! He snapped
down the cap.

The darkness which fell was stifling. The in-
visible walls of the cave seemed to be closing in
on him, compressing the thin air, making it hard
to breathe. The dust got into his nose and throat.
It had a dry metallic taste. Iron in it. It shriveled
the membranes of his throat like alum. He cleared

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ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION

his throat noisily and ran his tongue over his
thick lips. What he needed was a drink. Just a
couple of drops. He unscrewed the canteen and
lifted it to his lips.

Somewhere in the blackness something ipoved.
It made only the very smallest sound — the tick of
a claw on the rock — but he heard it. Instantly
he was on the alert. So that was their game!
Well, let ’em come! They were as blind as he
was in this hole, and he had yet to see the day
when any animal could outsmart him!

He set the canteen carefully down behind a
block of stone. It would be safer there if there
was a scrap, and it might hit against something
and give him away if he carried it. Shifting his
gun to his left hand, he began cautiously to work
his way along the wall, stopping every few inches
to listen. He could hear nothing but the rhythmic,
ghostly whisper on the creatures’ breathing.
Whatever it was that had moved, it was quiet now.

His fingers found the first of the slabs of fallen
limestone which lay half buried in the clay along
the right-hand wall. They reached almost to the
chimney, but about fifteen feet from where he
had been sitting there was a break in the line, and
the wall dropped back into a shallow alcove no
more than two feet high. In there he would have
solid rock on all sides of him, and he would be
directly opposite the pile of dried weeds in which
the zek was lying. He would have a clear shot at
the ugly brute between two of the fallen blocks.

His groping hand came down on something cold
and scaly that wriggled hastily away under the
rocks. There was an answering squeal of terror
and a patter of scampering feet as panic-stricken
little creatures scattered in front of him. Some-
thing as heavy as a cat landed on his back and
clung there, chattering madly. He batted at it
and knocked it to the floor. Then, only a few
feet ahead in the darkness, he heard the stealthy
click of claw on stone again. The zekf

He had to have light! It was suicide to face
that monster in pitch blackness! He had slipped
the lighter back into the outside pocket of his
coverall. He fumbled for it. It was gone!

The panic went out of Harrigan in a flash. He
sat back on his heels and curled his fingers lov-
ingly around the butt of his gun. The tougher
things got, the better he liked them. The lighter
must have dropped out of his open pocket; he
could find it when he needed it by going back over
the ground he had just covered. It wasn’t lost.
But he didn’t need it. The dark was his protec-
tion. not his enemy. They couldn’t see him in the
dark.

He dropped back on all fours. Everything was
quiet again. He’d hear them if they tried any-
thing. He was almost at the alcove, and then
they’d have to blast to get at him. He could pick

’em off one by one if they tried to get in.

The clay was hard as brick and full of little
chunks of broken stone that gouged at his knees,
even through the heavy suit. The roof was lower,
too; he had to get down on his elbows and hitch
along, almost flat on his face.

His heart was thumping like mad. He was
working too hard in this thin air. He rolled over
on his side, his back against one of the big blocks,
and stared into the blackness. Another few feet
and he could lie down and wait for them. He
needed time out. He had to have a clear head.
He cursed his stupidity in not bringing an oxygen
flask from the car. One shot of that stuff and
he’d be ready to take ’em all on at once, bare-
handed!

As he started on again something tinkled on
the stone beside him. He groped for it: it was
the lighter. It had been in his back pocket. Damn
fool — letting the darkness rattle him! Animals
were all afraid of fire. He could smoke ’em out
any time he wanted to. He was boss of this cave!
A grin of satisfaction spread over his grimy face
as he shuffled along on knees and elbows through
the dust.

One big slab almost blocked the hole he was
looking for. It was a tight squeeze, but he wrig-
gled through and found plenty of room behind
it. He felt for the crack between the blocks that
was opposite the nest, slid his gun cautiously into
position, and flashed the lighter. Now!

The nest was empty.

With a curse Harrigan rolled to the other open-
ing. The flame of the lighter showed him the far
end of the cave— the grak crouching wide-eyed in
his niche — the black arch of the entrance — and the
zek!

The thing had slipped past him in the dark.
It stood where he had been sitting a moment ago,
by the entrance. It stared back at him over its
shoulder — a hideous thing like a giant reptile-
snouted weasel, mottled with leprous gray. It
grinned at him, its red eyes mocking, then
stretched out a handlike paw and picked up his
canteen I

Harrigan’s first shots spattered against the rock
above the monster’s head ; the light blinded him.
His next clipped through the coarse mane on the
back of its thick neck. His last was fired point-
blank into its snarling face. Then the lighter
went spinning away across the floor and talons
like steel clamps closed on his arm.

The rocks saved him then. The thing had him
by the arm, but his body was protected. He still
had the gun; he twisted around in the beast’s grim
grasp and emptied it into the darkness. Its grip
loosened and he snatched his arm free. It was
bleeding where the zek’s claws had bitten into the

THE CAVE

flesh. Then, through the crack on his right, he
saw a sheet of white flame go up as the lighter
touched the powder-dry mass of weeds in the
beast’s nest.

The cave was lit up as bright as day. Harrigan
saw the zek, blood streaming from a ragged wound
in its broad chest, its face a bloody mask of fury.
One shot had plowed a long furrow across the
side of his head. It gathered its powerful hind
legs under it, seized a corner of the great block
which barred the opening with paws like human
hands, and pulled. The muscles stood out in
knotted ropes on its arms and shoulders as it
worried at the massive stone. Then the packed
clay at its base crumbled and the great block
slowly tipped. The way was open. His sanctuary
had become a trap.

There was one way out. Harrigan took it.
Desperately he lunged forward, out of the cranny
straight into the thing’s arms. He clamped both
hands over its narrow lower jaw and forced its
slavering snout straight back with all the power
of his own broad back. It rose on its haunches,
hugging him to it, then toppled over, dragging
him with it into the open, raking at him with its
cruel hind claws. He set his jaw and felt his arms
stiffen and straighten as the evil head was driven
back — back. As through a red mist he saw the
grak’s owl eyes staring at him over the monster’s
shoulder — saw the coppery gleam of firelight on
a shining knife. He felt the zek shudder as the
keen blade was driven home in its back. It began
to cough — great racking coughs that shook its
whole frame. Its arms tightened convulsively
about him and its claws clenched in his back as
the copper knife drove home again and again.
Then, slowly, they began to loosen. The beast
was dead.

The burning weeds had dimmed to a dull flicker.
The dust that had been stirred up in their struggle
hung like a red veil in the air. Harrigan lay
staring up through it at the little native, sucking
the thin air painfully into his tortured lungs.
The damned little rat had saved his life! He
wiped the blood and dust off his face with his
sleeve and got slowly to his feet. He had to
stoop to clear the ceiling. That knife — that was
a man’s weapon. Wonder where the grak got it —

He took one step toward the grak. Before he

could take another the knife went smoothly into
his belly, just under the breastbone, driving up-
ward to the heart.

Squatting in the darkness, listening to the dis-
tant murmur of the storm, the grak wondered what
would have happened in the cave if the man had
not come there. The zek had been a treacherous
ally: sooner or later it might have broken the
peace. Once its blood-rage had been aroused it
had, of course, been necessary to kill it. But if
the man had not come that necessity might have
been averted.

The man had been very clever. The grak had
been almost certain that he was what he pretended
to be. But as always there was one thing— one
very little thing — to betray him. He did not know
the law of water.

In every doubtful situation, the grak reflected
smugly, there was some trivial matter in which
the Source of Evil or His emissaries would reveal
themselves. Some one thing in which the true
grak was clearly distinguishable from the forces
of Nature against which he must forever fight.
One must be quick to see such discrepancies — end
quick to act on them.

The matter of water lay at the very root of
the law by which all grekka — all living things —
existed. It was the thing which all must have,
which none, under the law. could withhold from
another. Without it there could be no life. With
it every living thing was given strength to battle
on against the eternal foe.

The man had brought water to the cave. Under
the law all grekka must share in it according to
their need. But when the zek had gone to take
its share, the man had tried to kill it. By that
small thing he revealed himself — no grak, but one
of His evil things. So he had died. So, once more,
was victory won for the brotherhood of living
things against the Universe.

He would make a song about this thing, and
sing it by the fires of his tribe. He would cut a
sign in the stone over the entrance of the cave,
after the storm was over, so that others who came
there would know of it. And the cave itself,
where his forefathers had come and lit their fires,
would keep the bodies of the zek and the man
thus, side by side, as witness forever.

THE END.

But—

Here and now it’s not water but money
that’s needed. Are you doing your share?

TEN PERCENT EVERY PAY DAY TO WAR BONDS

GET OUT km GET UNDER

By 1. Sprague de Camp

9 Second of Two Parts. Concerning the evolution of the panzer division and bring-
ing the Babylonian war-chariot up to medieval and modern times. The tank was
not an original idea— it was simply the final perfection of a long-sought method.

In the first installment we followed the five-
thousand-year struggle of the fighting-vehicle in-
ventors up to the point where they were finally
stymied by the equations connecting fire power,
weight, and power of human and animal muscle.
(The sail-car inventors did no better.)

For over two centuries the art lay dormant.
Then, about 1770, one Nicholas Cugnot had the
obvious — to us — idea: why not use this new steam
engine, that is used to pump the water out of mines,
on a carriage? Perhaps it would haul heavier loads
than the largest team of horses; perhaps the heavi-
est artillery. Then the enemies of our beautiful
France — pouf! Our dear king seems to be me-
chanically inclined, even if a bit stupid other-
wise —

He built it, and it ran. But barely. It had a
massive timber frame and one big front wheel,
on which was mounted furnace, boiler, and engine.
Wheel and power plant were turned as a unit by
a kind of windlass, like that on modern road roll-
ers. Cugnot demonstrated his brain child in Paris.
True, it groaned along at two and one half miles
an hour, and had to stop every hundred feet to get
up steam. But it marched. That was the main
thing —

Then Cugnot found he was headed straight for
a wall, and all his frantic straining at the windlass
would not get it turned in time. Crash! To the
Bastille with you. Monsieur Cugnot, for disor-
derly conduct; when you get out may you think
hard before you again destroy the property and
risk the lives of honest citizens with your absurd
machines.

Fortunately the inventors keep at it, even when
— as is often the case — the idea is unsound. Other
steam carriages followed, evolving parallel with
the infant steamship. Some steam carriages actu-
ally ran commercially in England during the 1820s
until the stagecoach companies had them legis-
lated out of business. The inventors then put
their machines on rails, killing two birds : the
antisteam-coach laws and the terrific rolling fric-
tion offered by unpaved roads. And in another
decade the web of rails was spreading like frost

lines across the maps of Europe and America.

Here, at first sight, was the solution to the fight-
ing vehicle problem:

6. The Armored Train. This weapon was sug-
gested as early as 1826, and put into practice in
1848. This was at the siege of Vienna. Some en-
terprising commander mounted a small cannon on
a flat car and protected it with an improvised
armor of railroad iron. The resulting armored
train puffed up and down the track and banged
away and departed without leaving much impress
on history.

At second sight the armored train was seen to
have one horrid shortcoming: it would go only
where the track went, and then only as long as
the track was intact. Against Arabs or American
Indians it might work, but more civilized peoples
would immediately cut the line with shell, mine,
or crowbar, and then where are you?

So during the American Civil and Franco-Prus-
sian wars guns were mounted on railroad cars,
true, but only as railroad batteries: unarmored,
built to shell the enemy from a safe distance be-
hind the front lines.

But if a war finds you with a lot of rolling stock,
guns, and boiler plate, and trackage that runs into
disputed and hostile territory, it seems a shame
not to assemble this combination into armored
trains from which you can get some use, just as
navies in wartime warm over merchantmen into
auxiliary cruisers — pretty terrible things by ideal
standards, but better than nothing.

Thus the Boer War of 1899 found the British
in South Africa. They immediately fitted out ten
armored trains. One set out for threatened Mafe-
king, but was caught by the Boers at Kraaipan
and shelled into junk. Another went galloping
out of Estcourt to reconnoiter, but was operated
so rashly that it was presently derailed and most
of the crew captured. The British found that
trains that depended on rifles and machine guns
only for defense, or that tried to operate with-
out support from regular forces, were practically
useless. Also, the trains were first assigned to the

GET OUT AND GET UNDER

military commanders in the various districts, and
at the first Vi^ord of Boers these would dash out
onto the main line regardless of schedules, pro-
ducing some wonderful traffic jams.

But by the end of the war things were different.
The number of trains had been raised to nineteen;
they were under the command of one officer who
was also a railway expert, Captain Nanton, who
had operated his own armored train with such ag-
gressiveness as to capture most of the ammunition
of Boer Commandant De Wet at Baartman Siding.
At the start of the war the Boers had blown up
the tracks with great frequency, but by 1901 they
had lost most of their artillery, and a system of
blockhouses and frequent patrols by the trains
made the planting of mines extremely hazardous.
The trains mostly carried cannon; one of them
mounted a six-incher, which, with the help of an
observation balloon, shelled the astonished Boers
at Fourteen Streams from a distance of eleven
thousand yards.

In May of 1900 Colonel Robert Baden-Powell —
the Boy Scouts’ Baden-Powell, who recently died
at a vast age — was put in charge of the defense of
Mafeking. He had an armored train to help, and
a limited stretch of track to operate it on; the
Boers had cut the track north and south of the
town. The Boers ill-advisedly settled down to
make a leisurely seige of it, their commander,
Cronje, having been forbidden by President Kru-
ger to incur losses by making a direct attack.
Baden-Powell ran his train up and down, shoot-
ing at such Boers as showed themselves; on one
of these excursions it got into a brisk fight and
had to be extricated by the infantry.

The wily Baden-Powell devised all sorts of re-
markable improvisations during the siege, such as
a homemade eighteen-pounder howitzer and an
acetylene searchlight. At the end of the year he
ordered an attack on the small Boer fort on Game
Tree Hill, in which assault the train was to take
part. But the Boers got wind of the attack and
damaged the track so that the train could not get
close enough to the fort to use its guns effectively,
and the Boers stopped the British attack with
heavy and deadly rifle fire. Mafeking was re-
lieved, in dire distress, the following May.

In World War I armored trains were similarly
improvised and used in much the same manner.
On the night of September 11, 1915, Captain
Scheichelbauer, commanding Austrian Armored
Train No. II, set out from Gorz — now Gorizia —
to destroy the Italian positions around the Babin-
rub Tunnel several miles to the north. He took
along infantry to help drive off the Italian soldiery
and a repair crew to fix the track. The engineer
in his excitement ran the lead car onto a section
of damaged track, but the repair crew somehow
got the car back on the rails. The Austrians

Fig. I. One of the early post-gunpowder attempts
to produce an effective armored car — RameIIi‘s Am-
phibious Car of 2588.

fought their way up to the tunnel, with the crew
repairing track as they advanced and the train’s
guns knocking out the Italian machine guns; blew
up the tunnel, and retired in broad daylight under
shell fire. The Italians made several hits but
failed to stop the train.

The Russians early fell in love with the armored
train, perhaps because of its horrendous appear-
ance, and both sides used them to good advantage
in the Civil War of 1917-1920. Most of the cam-
paigns of this war were fought along the scanty
railroad lines. Since Russian roads were either
bad or nonexistent, and there were little artillery
and no airplanes available, the trains were about
as effective as they are ever likely to be.

In 1919 the scoundrelly White general, Grigori
Semyonof^, controlled five armored cars in eastern
Siberia, and found them most useful in terrorizing
the countryside. (Semyonof was subsidized by the
Japanese and had some American and many
British supporters despite his atrocities. This
greatly distressed the commanders of the Ameri-
can army in Siberia, who were trying with doubt-
ful success to stay neutral in the civil war, loathed
Semyonof, and had no clear idea of why they
were there in the first place.) This fearsome
brigand sent his five trains west to help Kolchak’s
army at Irkutsk. The last of these, named
Destroyer and commanded by a General Bogo-
moletz, got into a dispute with the Americans
through whose zone it passed; the Russians had
decided it would be fun to shoot a station master.
The Americans rescued the unfortunate civilian,
and Bogomoletz departed muttering into the
night.

At Posolskaya there were thirty-one American
soldiers under Lieutenant Paul Kendall, sleeping
in box cars on a siding in forty-below weather.
The Destroyer stopped beside the siding and
ppened fire on the Americans, killing two and
wounding one. The Americans turned out in
record time, returned the fire and damaged the

'Also spelled Semenov, Semeoaoff, et cetera ; pros. sem-patcK-off.

ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION

engine with grenades. The Destroyer crawled
off about three miles, at which point the Ameri-
cans caught up with it and captured it entire,
bagging forty-eight men — five having been killed
— six officers and the general. Unfortunately,
Kendall turned his prisoners over to his superior,
Colonel Morrow, who was compelled by political
exigencies to let them go. This result led the
commander in chief, General Graves, to opine
that while Kendall’s action had been the soldierly
and correct one, he couldn’t help regretting “that
Lieutenant Kendall, who first got hold of Bogo-
moletz, did not hang him to a telegraph pole.”

The previous year one of Semyonof’s trains had
fought another armored train commanded by the
Red general Lazo. They whanged away until each
made a hit on the other, whereupon they called
off the fight by mutual consent and retired to their
respective homes for repairs.

A British interventionist force in Turkestan
came up against a similar situation; they and the

Fig. 2. Another would-be gun-proof armored car —
Cowen's battle-car of ISSS. Mechanical power sources
were availible by this time, but not sufficieat power-
per-pound.

Reds each had an armored train; there was one
track stretching straight over the horizon fore
and aft. Away from the track the desert condi-
tions prohibited wandering. Moreover, these trains
were both so assembled that neither one could
fire dead ahead. The British tried a flank march
through the desert but were repulsed with loss.
Thereafter they sat ; when one train retreated
the other advanced, and vice versa. For all anyone
knows the trains might have been doing their
tango yet had not the British been withdrawn.

Armored trains are still being used by the
Russians; the Japanese are probably getting good
use out of their Sumida armored motor rail car,
which can be converted into an ordinary armored
car by putting tires on the wheels. This form
of weapon will probably continue to appear
sporadically for some time, where circumstances
are favorable. But the perfection of other and
much more versatile fighting vehicles, land and
air. points to its gradual decline.

7. The Armored Car. Experimentation with
free-wheel power vehicles — free-wheel meaning
nonrail — continued sporadically throughout the
nineteenth century, with attempts to adapt these
machines to military use along three lines: a slow
.unarmored vehicle for military transport, a fast,
unarmored vehicle for scouting, and a slow,
armored vehicle for fighting.

The first of these came first, in the form of the
big-wheeled steam tractor originally called a “road
locomotive.” Many readers will remember when
such machines were in common use for pulling
threshers and for road-construction work; proba-
bly there are some still in the possession of road
contractors. They hauled strings of supply
wagons for the British Army in the Crimean
and Boer wars, but were something less than a
screaming success.

The big-wheel theory was that if you made the
diameter of the wheels sufficiently great you could
overcome the rolling friction furnished by the
roughness of the Earth’s surface. A speciously
convincing theory; but in practice, while the
bearing surface went up, the weight went up
faster and so did the rolling friction. When the
road locomotives stayed on the roads, they ruined
the roads ; when they left the roads they stuck
themselves fast.

Perhaps the first inventor to put a machine gun
on a motor vehicle was Major R. P. Davidson of
the Illinois National Guard, who about 1900
mounted a Colt on a light Duryea proto-automo-
bile. Every few years thereafter Major Davidson
produced a new machine-gun car, clear down to
1915. They were tested; they worked. The War
Department said, “How interesting,” and let it
go at that. Americans hold something of a record
for pioneering in new military instruments and
techniques, then dropping them for want of
money or interest while others perfect them.
Witness the history of the airplane, the subma-
rine, the machine gun, parachute troops, and so on.

In this case the “other” was Paul Daimler,
German, son of the automobile pioneer. In 1903,
by which time the automobile was really an auto-
mobile rather than a horseless carriage, Daimler
built an armored car with a four-wheel drive and
a revolving machine-gun turret. The generals
saw, hemmed and hawed; improved models ap-
peared during the following years. The European
armies provided themselves with one or two; then
several hundred, despite the fact that the machines
were built on commercial chassis too light for the
weight, and were by modern standards outra-
geously underpowered.

The American army in 1909 experimented with
a couple of improvised motor guns: one-pounder
cannon mounted on trucks. History; almost identi-
cal with that of the machine-gun car.

The average or common-sense viewpoint con-

GET OUT AND GET UNDER

cerning military motorization was illustrated in
1907 by an Italian military engineer, Major Andrea
Maggiorotti, in an article in L’ Automobile. He
wrote: “The automobile, or more strictly speak-
ing, the gasoline motor, has brought forth a school
of admirers who wish to use it in the army in
a strange manner; they call themselves believers
in the mechanical battle. According to them . . .
many a future warrior will use ironclad automo-
biles or dirigible ballorons in his battles, which
will be struggles between metallic carriages or
bags of wind, resulting in disemboweled iron
monsters or silken corpses. . . . Fortunately,
there is no indication that the wanderings of this
school from the dictates of common sense are
obtaining favor in the military organizations of
the various nations.”

Major Maggiorotti was no mere back-to-the-
longbow reactionary; he went on to describe and
strongly advocate the use of motor vehicles for
scouting, dispatch-running, and supply transport.
It just happened that in this case the moderate
major was wrong and the enthusiasts right. If
they always were, the improvement of the art of
war would be simple: hire the most original
amateur you can find and let him carry out the
wildest plans he can conceive, even if it means
arming your soldiers with megaphones and copies
of the works of Mohandas K. Gandhi.

But with military invention as with prophecy:
we remember the successes, and forget such things
as Lieutenant Hunter’s experimental U. S. S.
Union. This steam warship of 1839 had paddle
wheels set in recesses in her sides on vertical
shafts; would do all of three m.p.h. in smooth
water with a favoring wind.

Often the innovation is impractical in itself,
but contains the germ of a sound idea. Example:
in 1855 James Cowen had proposed a turtle-back
armored steam car with fourteen-pounder cannon
and whirling scythe blades; rejected by Lord
Palmerston, not as impractical — which it un-
doubtedly was — but as too barbarous.

The armored car got a tryout in the Italian
conquest and pacification of Tripoli, 1911-1913.
No details; but this campaign also saw the first
military use of the airplane. Italian chicken
coops put-putted over the heads of the enemy,
and the pilots tossed little bombs by hand, while
the Turks canted up field guns in a futile endeavor
to hit back.

The outbreak of World War I saw a burst of
armored-car activity on the Western Front. The
Germans led with about a thousand machines,
which they used in a tentative manner as auxilia-
ries to cavalry. They also had a number of
motorized Jaeger — sharpshooter — battalions.

Typical incident; In October, 1914, Belgian
armored car No. 7, Lieutenant Thiery command-

ing, encountered a road block of peasant carts;
butted through it and with his machine gun drove
the crew of a German battery from their guns
with loss. Thiery was about to destroy the guns
when Belgian artillery opened fire on the car by
mistake. The car went back and straightened
out the error, then returned to the German posi-
tion to find that the Germans had rebuilt the
barricade and mounted a machine gun on it. In
the ensuing fight Thiery and one of his gunners
were wounded, though they knocked out the
German machine gun. The car’s remaining gun-
ner could not drive; Thiery managed to crawl
back into the driver’s seat and bring the car out
of action.

Multiply that incident, with variations; add
innumerable mechanical troubles and tire blow-
outs, and you have the history of armored cars
in action during this period. Commodore Sueter,
Director of the Air Department of the British
Admiralty, set up a naval air base at Ostend, later
moved to Dunkirk. To protect the base Sueter
commandeered all the Rolls-Royces in England
and put armored-car bodies on them. These cars
skirmished with German cavalry and made dashes
into hostile territory to rescue forced-down avia-
tors. They were operated by Royal Naval Air
Service personnel, which is how the British Navy
got into the incongruous business of developing
armored land vehicles.

Eventually the establishment expanded to
twenty-four armored cars, fifty-eight motor-
cycles and six armored motor guns: quite an
embryo armored division. But before it could
be used thus, the front jelled, and the develop-
ment of continuous trench lines diminished the
effectiveness of the cars. The vehicles and their
crews were withdrawn to England; some of the
armored cars were sent to Egypt, the Middle

Fig. 3. But the essentials for successful armored cars
were at hand; shot-proof steel and mechanical power.
And the dreamers were at work. This illustration from
H. G. Well^ story “The Land Ironclads" (1903) was
captioned: “It had the effect of a large and clumsy
black insect."

ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION

East, and Russia, where they wrought great ex-
ploits and suffered all kinds of misfortunes
throughout the war.

Squadron 20 remained in England experiment-
ing with portable bridges, caterpillar tracks, and
other expedients to enable cars and gun tractors
to cross ditches. They did not have an easy time.
The Fourth Sea Lord, Commodore Lambert, had
no use for this work. He kept asking Sueter
what his “damned idlers” were doing; and de-
scribed the antiaircraft searchlight, another of

Fig. 4. And in December, 1914, the ermoted car bid
arj-iVed. Not yet the fuII-Eedged go-anywhere vehicle,
this armor-plated Rolls-Royce was constructed by the
British Royal Naval Air Service.

Sueter’s brain children, as “the most foolish con-
trivance it is possible to imagine.”

Armored cars were originally developed and
used as auxiliaries to cavalry, which did not work
too well, the offensive and defensive powers and
the mobility of the cars being all different from
those of the horsemen. The idea of using a divi-
sion of armored vehicles as an independent strik-
ing force does not seem to have been even thought
of. Yet it happened, though the lesson was not
appreciated for a long time. In 1916 the Duke of
Westminster led a force of nine armored cars and
two civilian automobiles against an army of five
thousand Senussi Arabs, stiffened by Turkish
artillery and German machine gunners, in Libya.
The British cars routed the foe with great slaugh-
ter. captured all their guns and spare ammunition,
and rescued the crew of a British ship whom the
Arabs were holding for ransom.

Though the pioneer work in the operation of
armored divisions was done on the Southern and
Eastern Fronts of World War I with armored
cars, and though these machines are still very
useful, they were and are largely road-bound ex-
cept in desert country. They thus suffer from

the main shortcomings of the armored train,
though in lesser degree. The definite answer to
the fighting-vehicle problem was furnished by

8. The Tank. With the closing down of the
trench deadlock in the later months of 1914, the
dreadful business of trying to fight the gun with
its target began. Since the German Army was
the best provided with machine guns, and the
Allied armies did most of the attacking, the latter
suffered most. To clear away the barbed wire
and machine guns, the Allied generals resorted
to heavier and heavier artillery bombardments.
These destroyed a few machine guns, but merely
stirred up the wire without removing it, and so
pocked the ground with holes that advance be-
came harder than ever. When the barrage lifted
the defenders still had time to rush out of their
dugouts, man their machine guns and mow down
the attackers. This superiority of the defense,
due, like the similar medieval period, to a passing
phase in the development of military technique,
adequately explains the “defense complex” of the
post-war democracies without dragging in any
alleged “democratic degeneracy.”

Obviously, ordinary wheels were hopeless as a
means of negotiating such tortured terrain. There
had been other ideas: machines with legs, cater-
pillar tracks — patented by Edgeworth in England
in 1770— huge rolling spheres and cylinders, and
Diplock’s “Pedrail,” a steam tractor built about
1900 with swiveled disk-shaped feet around the
periphery of the drivers.

The Pedrail never amounted to much, but is
memorable for the use made of it by the Grand
Old Man of science-fiction, H. G. Wells. In The
Strand Magazine for December, 1903, which also
ran the third installment of “The Return of Sher-
lock Holmes: The Adventure of the Dancing
Men,” Wells had a short story called “The Land
Ironclads.” The story is written from the view-
point of a war correspondent covering a battle
,in a vaguely South African locale. The side to
which he is accredited is overwhelmed in a night
attack by a swarm of huge fighting vehicles re-
sembling box cars a hundred feet long, steam-
driven, rolling forward on pedrail wheels and
mowing down the enemy with numerous auto-
matic rifles aimed by periscopic sights. Needless
to say, the losers are very bitter about the use
of such unfair machines, which will be the ruina-
tion of the grand old art of war.

In October, 1914, the British Army’s Official
Correspondent, Colonel Swinton of the Royal
Engineers, conceived the idea of an armored
vehicle on caterpillar tracks, big enough to squash
barbed wire and cross trenches, and armed with
light cannon to silence machine guns. Like Wells,
Swinton had written a futuristic war story with
armored vehicles overwhelming everything. As the

GET OUT AND GET UNDER

armored car was originally developed purely as
an auxiliary to cavalry, the tank was originally
developed purely as an auxiliary to infantry.

Colonel Swinton put his idea to various generals
and got the brush-off ; but one of his memoranda
came to the notice of Winston Churchill, then
First Lord of the Admiralty. Churchill set up a
Landships Committee with Sir Eustace H. Tenny-
son d’Eyncourt, Director of Naval Construction,
as chairman, and Lieutenant Albert Stern, ex-
banker, as secretary. Commodore Sueter’s ar-
mored-car boys were to do the dirty work of
exn'Timentation under the committee’s super-
vision.

From this point the story becomes complicated.
This idea is suggested; that one is tried; com-
mittees merge and split and change shape like
amoebae. At length a practical machine was built,
called variously H. M. S. Centipede, “Mother,”
and “Big Willie” — “Little Willie” being an un-
successful predecessor. The actual design of this
machine was the work of Lieutenant W. G. Wilson
of the Royal Naval Air Service, and William
Tritton, a civilian engineer of William Foster
& Co., a machinery company of Lincoln founded
in 1854 by a chin-whiskered flour miller.

One of the proposals considered by the Land-
ships Committee was Flight Commander Hether-
ington’s land battleship, a machine of true science-
fiction dimensions. It consisted of a triangular
frame mounted on three enormous wheels forty
feet in diameter and thirteen feet across the treads.
It was to mount three turrets each with a pair of
four-inch guns, be driven by an eight-hundred-
horsepower Diesel, have three-inch armor, and
scale one hundred feet long, eighty feet wide,
and forty-six feet high. Hetherington estimated
a weight of three hundred tons; d’Eyncourt cal-
culated one thousand, and the proposal was
dropped with a thud. This is probably just as
well, for while tanks of one hundred sixty-five
tons have been laid down, machines of over one
hundred tons have not proved very practical.

After the war a Royal Commission considered
the claims of various tank inventors: Swinton,

Sueter, Hetherington, d’Eyncourt, Tritton, Wil-
son; Boothby and Macfie of the R. N. A. S.;
Nesfield, Crompton, and Le Gros — civilian engi-
neers — and a Mr. de Mole, whose design had been
buried in the files of the War Office since 1912.

The Commission awarded fifteen thousand
pounds for Tritton and Wilson to split between
them; one thousand pounds each to Swinton and
d’Eyncourt; five hundred pounds each to Macfie
and Nesfield. The rest got pats on the back, and
some of them set up a fearful outcry of “We was
robbed.” The Commission followed the tricky
rule of not giving awards for work done in line
of duty, which put the claimants in the awkward

position of implying that they had been neglect-
ing their proper jobs.

Those who want to study this development more
closely will find it well documented, for many of
the people involved wrote books, some of them
with diagrams showing who suggested what to
whom, and when.®

"Mother” ran her trials in January and Febru-
ary of 1916, and one hundred fifty more like her
were ordered. This Mark I, as the model was
officially designated, was a thirty-one-ton machine
with a rhomboidal profile, the tracks being car-
ried clear round the body. This feature was then
considered vital to the tank’s success in climbing
out of holes. So it may have been with the feeble
engine power — a one-hundred-five-hp. Daimler —
available. But after the war it was watered down
considerably. There was also a pair of wheels
trailing behind to increase trench-crossing ability
and help steering; these were soon abandoned. A
projecting sponson on each side housed a six-
pounder naval gun, and there were four machine
guns as well. The machine did three point seven
m.p.h. on the level — a brisk walk.

Swinton was given the job of raising and train-
ing the Tank Detachment, which eventually grew
into the Royal Tank Corps. The name “tank”
was his idea, to mislead possible spies, and it stuck.

-Sfi’ for JDsfnnrft that on ji. 287 of LldOell Hart'a "The Rpmaking
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While neither euphonious nor appropriate, it is an
improvement on the German SchiitzengrabenveT-
nicbtangpanzBTkraitwagen.

All concerned at first agreed on the sensible
idea that the machines were not to be introduced
to the enemy until a large number of them were
available. But in the following July the C-in-C.
Earl Haig, began his Somme offensive, which
proved just one more case of trying to smother
guns with targets. With horrible losses to explain
and nothing but a few miles of mud to show for
them, Haig ordered the available tanks put in
regardless.

The conditions were something less than favor-
able: many of the tanks were partly worn out in
training and in performing stunts for the benefit
of curious generals. The authorities had ordered
the tanks’ wireless sets removed. They had for-
bidden the use of the miniature kite balloons
which the tankers had obtained to hoist as direc-
tional landmarks. There was no time for training
in infantry co-operation.

Fifty-nine tanks were sent to France. Between
mechanical bugs, wear, and the mud of France,
only fourteen tanks actually went into action at
Flers on September 15, 1916; of these, five imme-
diately got stuck. The remaining nine carried
out their missions with moderate success; con-
sidering their embryonic state they did very well,
certainly well enough to justify immediate further
development.

The problem was solved.

Later in the war, and the Battles of Cambrai
and Amiens, tanks of improved models were used

hundreds at a time. They took great bites out
of the German lines and rounded up thousands
of prisoners. The Germans seem to have remem-
bered these events.

During and after the war the concept of the
independent armored striking force gradually
developed, and was articulated by such men as
de Gaulle in France and Fuller and Liddell Hart
in England. Unfortunately, Captain Liddell Hart
swung round during the 1930s to a defensive,
limited-war philosophy, which was just what the
English school of political yogis then in power
wanted. General Fuller developed strong Fascist
sympathies, wherefore his opinions were dis-
counted on the unfounded theory that a man who
entertains barbarous political notions must be
wrong in his military ideas. On the contrary,
Assurnazirpal and Timur were very successful
generals despite their pyramids of heads.

The evolution of the fighting land vehicle — and
to some extent the fighting air vehicle, too — has
shown interesting parallels to the development
of the fighting sea vehicle. For instance, the
broadside guns of the Wilson-Tritton tanks have
been replaced by guns in revolving turrets on the
center line, which is exactly what happened to
warships in the 1860s. Strategy and tactics have
shown a similar convergence. But I needn’t labor
this point to science-fiction readers. If anything
the story writers are inclined to overdo the paral-
lels between mechanized war in different environ-
ments, and organize their space fleets into battle-
ships, cruisers, and destroyers on the analogy of
sea fleets. As the late George Gershwin wrote,
“it ain’t necessarily so.”

Fig. 5. "Motber,” or "Big Willie,'* designed by Trittoa and Wilson, built by Wm. Foster <§ Co., this was the first
of the tanks — tbe Srst successful armored war vehicle, capable of overland travel on the field of battle, carry-
ing effective weapons. This was the pilot model tor tbe British Mark I of the first World War.

GET OUT AND GET UNDER

The principal lesson from this tale is a soberer
and less glamorous one: that the road to invention
is apt to be long, hard, and uncertain. We can’t
blame Leonardo for not realizing that his effort
to design a tank was hopeless; that he’d have to
wait for rapid-fire guns, the caterpillar track, and
the internal-combustion engine, not to mention a
host of subsidiary inventions in the form of gear-
ing, steel manufacture, et cetera.

How far short of success the designers of the
fifteenth-century battle cars were, is shown by a
simple consideration of power requirements. The
little American seven-ton tank of World War I,
a copy of the French Renault, did six m.p.h. when
feeling good, and carried only two men. It was
powered by a thirty-nine hp. Renault engine,
which is just about the minimum for moving a
practical tank. Yet the battle-car designers tried
to perform an equal or greater task with the
two hp. furnished by a couple of flesh-and-blood
horses!

Evidently we can’t count on whistling up an
invincible weapon in a month to defeat the invad-
ing Things; whether they come from the Third
Galaxy or the Third Reich, our most vigorous
efforts both in invention and in plain dirty fight-
ing may not be any too strenuous.

And next time you hear that some wonderful
invention has been turned down, don’t jump to
conclusions. It may, of course, be the case of the
conservative astigmatism of a Major Maggiorotti
or a Commodore Lambert. But there’s always a
chance that, instead of another tank, the device
is merely another battle car!

BIBLIOGRAPHY

P. Armandi, "Histoire Militaire des Elephant!,*' Paris:
D’Aymot; 1843.

J. B. Bury, “A History of Greece,” New York: Mod-
em Library: 1937.

J. P. Cranwell, “The Destiny of Sea Power,” New
York: Norton; 1941.

J. F. C. Fuller, “Tanks in the Great War,” London:
Murray; 1920.

£. Gibbon, “Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire,”
New York: Modern Library.

G. E. Harvey, “Hiatory of Burma,” London: Long-
mans, Green; 1925.

Jones, Rarey, E. Icka, “The Fighting Tanks Since
1916," Harrisburg: Military Service Publishing Co.; 1933.

C. R. Kutz, “War on Wheels,” Harrisburg: Military
Service Publishing Co.; 1940.

F. Mitchell, “Tank Warfare,” London: Nelson; 1933.

Moreland & Chatterje, “A Short History of India,”
London: Longmans, Green; 1936.

C. Oman, “A History of the Art of War in the Mid-
dle Ages,” London: Methuen; 1924.

M. Sueter, “The Evolution of the Tank,” London:
Hutchison; 1937.

E. D. Swinton, "Eyewitness,” Garden City: Double-
day Doran; 1933.

W. W. Tarn, “Hellenistic Military and Naval Achieve-
ments,” Cambridge (England) : Cambridge University
Press: 193G.

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100

TIME LOCKER

By lewis Padgett

A A useful little gadget. Stick anything in and it shrank, shrank
to a point where it was invisible and totally concealed— but it
would also shrink other things and permit curious sorts of crime—

Mlu(trat«d by M. Isip

Galloway played by ear, which would have been
all right had he been a musician — but he was a
scientist. A drunken and erratic one, but good.
He’d wanted to be an experimental technician, and
would have been excellent at it, for he had a streak
of genius at times. Unfortunately, there had been
no funds for such specialized education, and now
Galloway, by profession an integrator machine su-
pervisor, maintained his laboratory purely as a
hobby. It was the damndest-looking lab in six
States. Galloway had spent ten months building
what he called a liquor organ, which occupied
most of the space. He could recline on a comfort-
ably padded couch and, by manipulating buttons,
siphon drinks of marvelous quantity, quality, and
variety down his scarified throat. Since he had
made the liquor organ during a protracted period
of drunkenness, he never remembered the basic
principles of its construction. In a way, that was
a pity.

There was a little of everything in the lab, much
of it incongruous. Rheostats had little skirts on
them, like ballet dancers, and vacuously grinning
faces of clay. A generator was conspicuously
labeled, “Monstro,” and a much smaller one re-
joiced in the name of ''Bubbles.” Inside a glass
retort was a china rabbit, and Galloway alone
knew how it had got there. Just inside the door
was a hideous iron dog, originally intended for
Victorian lawns or perhaps for Hell, and its hol-
lowed ears served as sockets for test tubes.

‘‘But how do you do it?” Vanning asked.

Galloway, his lank form reclining under the
liquor organ, siphoned a shot of double Martini
into his mouth. “Huh?”

“You heard me. I could get you a swell job if
you’d use that screwball brain of yours. Or even
learn to put up a front.”

“Tried it,” Galloway mumbled. “No use. I can’t
work when I concentrate, except at mechanical
stuff. I think my subconscious must have a high
I. Q.”

Vanning, a chunky little man with a scarred.

swarthy face, kicked his heels against Monstro.
Sometimes Galloway annoyed him. The man never
realized his own potentialities, or how much they
might mean to Horace Vanning, Commerce An-
alyst. The “commerce,” of course, was extra-legal,
but the complicated trade relationships of 1970
left many loopholes a clever man could slip
through. The fact of the matter was. Vanning
acted in an advisory capacity to crooks. It paid
well. A sound knowledge of jurisprudence was
rare in these days; the statutes were in such a
tangle that it took years of research before one
could even enter a law school. But Vanning had
a staff of trained experts, a colossal library of
transcripts, decisions, and legal data, and, for a
suitable fee, he could have told Dr, Crippen how
to get off scot-free.

The shadier side of his business was handled in
strict privacy, without assistants. The matter of
the neuro-gun, for example —

Galloway had made that remarkable weapon,
quite without realizing its importance. He had
hashed it together one evening, piecing out the
job with court plaster when his welder went on
the fritz. And he’d given it to Vanning, on re-
quest. Vanning didn’t keep it long. But already
he had earned thousands of credits by lending the
gun to potential murderers. As a result, the police
department had a violent headache.

A man in the know would come to Vanning and
say, “I heard you can beat a murder rap. Suppose
I wanted to — ”

“Hold on! I can’t condone anything like that.”

“Huh? But—”

“Theoretically, 1 suppose a perfect murder
might be possible. Suppose a new sort of gun had
been invented, and suppose — just for the sake of
an example — it was in a locker at the Newark
. Stratoship Field.”

“Huh?”

“I’m just theorizing. Locker Number 79, com-
bination thirty-blue-eight. These little details
always help one to visualize a theory, don’t they?”

101

“You mean — ”

“Of course if our murderer picked up this im-
aginary gun and used it, he’d be smart enough to
have a postal box ready, addressed to . . . say . . .
Locker 40, Brooklyn Port. He could slip the
weapon into the box, seal it, and get rid of the
evidence at the nearest mail conveyor. But that’s
all theorizing. Sorry I can’t help you. The fee
for an interview is three thousand credits. The
receptionist will take your check.”

Later, conviction would be impossible. Ruling
875-M, Illinois Precinct, case of State vs. Dupson,
set the precedent. Cause of death must be deter-
mined. Element of accident must be considered.
As Chief Justice Duckett had ruled during the
trial of Sanderson vs. Sanderson, which involved
the death of the accused's mother-in-law —

Surely the prosecuting attorney, with his staff
of toxicological experts, must realize that —

And in short, your honor, I must respectfully
request that the case be dismissed for lack of evi-
dence and proof of casus mortis—

Galloway never even found out that his neuro-
gun was a dangerous weapon. But Vanning
haunted the sloppy laboratory, avidly watching
the results of his friend's scientific doodling. More
than once he had acquired handy little devices in
just this fashion. The trouble was, Galloway
wouldn't work!

He took another sip of Martini, shook his head,
and unfolded his lanky limbs. Blinking, he ambled
over to a cluttered workbench and began toying
with lengths of wire.

“Making something?”

“Dunno. Just fiddling. That’s the way it goes.
I put things together, and sometimes they work.
Trouble is, I never know exactly what they’re
going to do. Tsk!” Galloway dropped the wires
and returned to his couch. “Hell with it.”

He was, Vanning reflected, an odd duck. Gallo-
way was essentially amoral, thoroughly out of
place in this too-complicated world. He seemed
to watch, with a certain wry amusement, from a
vantage point of his own, rather disinterested for
the most part. And he made things—

102

ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION

But always and only for his own amusement.
Vanning sighed and glanced around the labora-
tory, his orderly soul shocked by the melee. Au-
tomatically he picked up a rumpled smock from
the floor, and looked for a hook. Of course there
was none. Galloway, running short or conductive
metal, had long since ripped them out and used
them in some gadget or other.

The so-called scientist was creating a zombie,
his eyes half closed. Vanning went over to a
metal locker in one corner and opened the door.
There were no hooks, but he folded the smock
neatly and laid it on the floor of the locker.

Then he went back to his perch on Monstro.

“Have a drink?’’ Galloway asked.

Vanning shook his head. “Thanks, no. I’ve got
a case coming up tomorrow.”

“There's always thiamin. Filthy stuff. I work
better when I’ve got pneumatic cushions around
my brain.”

“Well, I don’t.”

“It is purely a naatter of skill,” Galloway
hummed, “to which each may attain if he will. . . .
What are you gaping at?”

“That — locker,” Vanning said, frowning in a
baffled way. “What the — ” He got up. The metal
door hadn’t been securely latched an'' had swung
open. Of the smock Vanning had placed within
the metal compartment there was no trace.

“It’s the paint,” Galloway explained sleepily.
“Or the treatment. I bombarded it with gamma
rays. But it isn't good for anything.”

Vanning went over and swung a fluorescent into
a more convenient position. The locker wasn’t
empty, as he had at first imagined. The smock was
no longer there, but instead there was a tiny blob
of — something, pale-green and roughly spherical.

“It melts things?” Vanning asked, staring.

“Uh-huh. Pull it out. You’ll see.”

Vanning felt hesitant about nutting his hand in-
side the locker. Instead, he found a long pair of
test-tube clamps and teased the blob out. It was —

Vanning hastily looked away. His eyes hurt.
The green blob was changing in color, shape and
size. A crawling, nongeometrical blur of motion
rippled over it. Suddenly the clamps were re-
markably heavy.

No wonder. They were gripping the original
smock.

“It does that, you know,” Galloway said ab-
sently. “Must be a reason, too. I put things in
the locker and they get small. Take ’em out, and
they get big again. I suppose I could sell it to a
stage magician.” His voice sounded doubtful.

Vanning sat down, fingering the smock and
staring at the metal locker. It was a cube, ap-
proximately 3x3x5, lined with what seemed to
be grayish paint, sprayed on. Outside, it was
shiny black.

“How’d you do it?”

“Huh? I dunno. Just fiddling around.” Gal-
loway sipped his zombie. “Maybe it's a matter
of dimensional extension. My treatment may have
altered the spatio-temporal relationships inside
the locker. I wonder what that means?” he mur-
mured in a vague aside. "Words frighten me
sometimes."

Vanning was thinking about tesseracts. “You
mean it’s bigger inside than it is outside?”

“A paradox, a paradox, a most delightful para-
dox. You tell me. I suppose the inside of the
locker isn’t in this space-time continuum at all.
Here, shove that bench in it. You’ll see.” Cal-
loway made no move to rise; he waved toward
the article of furniture in question.

“You’re right. That bench is bigger than the
locker.”

“So it is. Shove it in a bit at a time. That cor-
ner first. Go ahead.”

Vanning wrestled with the bench. Despite his
shortness, he was stockily muscular.

“Lay the locker on its back. It’ll be easier.”

“I . . . uh! . . . O. K. Now what?”

“Edge the bench down into it.”

Vanning squinted at his companion, shrugged,
and tried to obey. Of course the bench wouldn’t
go into the locker. One corner did, that was all.
Then, naturally, the bench stopped, balancing pre-
cariously at an angle.

“Well?”

“Wait.”

The bench moved. It settled slowly downward.
As Vanning’s jaw dropped, the bench seemed to
crawl into the locker, with the gentle motion of
a not-too-heavy object sinking through water. It
wasn’t sucked down. It melted down. The por-
tion still outside the locker was unchanged. But
that, too, settled, and was gone.

Vanning craned forward. A blur of movement
hurt his eyes. Inside the locker was — something.
It shifted its contours, shrank, and became a spiky
sort of scalene pyramid, deep-purple in hue.

It seemed to be less than four inches across at
its widest point.

“I don’t believe it,” Vanning said.

Galloway grinned. “As the Duke of Wellington
remarked to the subaltern, it was a demned small
bottle, sir.”

“Now wait a minute. How the devil could I
put an eight-foot bench inside of a five-foot
locker?”

“Because of Newton,” Galloway said. “Gravity.
Go fill a test tube with water and I’ll show you.”
“Wait a minute . . . O. K. Now what?”

“Got it brim-full? Good. You’ll find some
sugar cubes in that drawer labeled ‘Fuses.’ Lay
a cube on top of the test tube, one corner down
so it touches the water.”

Vanning racked the tube and obeyed. “Well?”

TIME LOCKER

103

“What do you see?”

“Nothing. The sugar’s getting wet. And melt-
ing.”

“So there you are,” Galloway said expansively.
Vanning gave him a brooding look and turned
back to the tube. The cube of sugar was slowly
dissolving and melting down.

Presently it was gone.

“Air and water are different physical conditions.
In air a sugar cube can exist as a sugar cube. In
water it exists in solution. The corner of it ex-
tending into water is subject to aqueous condi-
tions. So it alters physically, though not chemi-
cally. Gravity does the rest."

“Make it clearer.”

“The analogy’s clear enough, dope. The water
represents the particular condition existing inside
that locker. The sugar cube represents the •v^'ork-
bench. Now! The sugar soaked up the water and
gradually dissolved it, so gravity could pull the
cube down into the tube as it melted. See?”

“I think so. The bench soaked up the . . . the
jf condition inside the locker, eh? A condition
that shrank the bench — "

“/n partis, not in toto. A little at a time. You
can shove a human body into a small container of
sulphuric acid, bit by bit.”

“Oh,” Vanning said, regarding the cabinet
askance. “Can you get the bench out again?”

“Do it yourself. Just reach in and pull it out.”
“Reach in? I don’t want my hand to melt!”

“It won’t. The action isn’t instantaneous. You
saw that yourself. It takes a few minutes for the
change to take place. You can reach into the
locker without any ill effects, if you don’t leave
your hand exposed to the conditions for more
than a minute or so. I’ll show you.” Calloway
languidly arose, looked around, and picked up an
empty demijohn. He dropped this into the locker.

The change wasn’t immediate. It occurred
slowly, the demijohn altering its shape and size
till it was a distorted cube the apparent size of a
cube of sugar. Galloway reached down and
brought it up again, placing the cube on the floor.
It grew. It was a demijohn again.

“Now the bench. Look out.”

Galloway rescued the little pyramid. Presently
it became the original workbench.

“You see? I’ll bet a storage company would like
this. You could probably pack all the furniture
in Brooklyn in here, but there’d be trouble in get-
ting what you wanted out again. The physical
change, you know—”

“Keep a chart,” Vanning suggested absently.
“Draw a picture of how the thing looks inside the
locker, and note down what it was.”

“The legal brain,” Galloway said. “I want a
drink.” He returned to his couch and clutched
the siphon in a gnip of death.

“I’ll give you six credits for the thing,” Van-
ning offered.

“Sold. It takes up too much room anyway.
Wish I could put it inside itself.” The scientist
chuckled immoderately. “That’s very funny.”

“Is it?” Vanning said. “Well, here you are.”
He took credit coupons from his wallet. "Where’ll
I put the dough?”

“Stuff it into Monstro. He’s my bank. . . .
Thanks.”

“Yeah, Say, elucidate this sugar business a bit,
will you? It isn’t just gravity that affects the
cube so it slips into a test tube. Doesn’t the water
soak up into the sugar — ”

“You’re right at that. Osmosis. No, I’m wrong.
Osmosis has something to do with eggs. Or is
that ovulation? Conduction, convection — absorp-
tion! Wish I’d studied physics; then I’d know
the right words. Just a zoot stoop, that’s me. I
shall take the daughter of the Vine to spouse,”
Galloway finished incoherently and sucked at the
siphon.

“Absorption,” Vanning scowled. “Only not
water, being soaked up by the sugar. The . . .
the conditions existing inside the locker, being
soaked up by your workbench — in that particular
case.

“Like a sponge or a blotter.”

“The bench?”

“Me,” Galloway said succinctly, and relapsed
into a happy silence, broken by occasional gurgles
as he poured liquor down his scarified gullet.
Vanning sighed and turned to the locker. He
carefully closed and latched the door before lift-
ing the metal cabinet in his muscular arms.

“Going? G’night. Fare thee well, fare thee
well—”

“Night.”

“F are — thee— well !” Galloway ended, in a melan-
choly outburst of tunefulness, as he turned over
preparatory to going to sleep.

Vanning sighed again and let himself out into
•the coolness of the night. Stars blazed in the sky,
except toward the south, where the aurora of
Lower Manhattan dimmed them. The glowing
white towers of skyscrapers rose in a jagged pat-
tern. A sky-ad announced the virtues of Vam-
bulin — “It Peps You Up.”

His speeder was at the curb. Vanning edged
the locker into the trunk compartment and drove
toward the Hudson Floatway, the quickest route
downtown. He was thinking about Poe.

The Purloined Letter, which had been hidden
in plain sight, but re-folded and re-addressed, so
that its superficial appearance was changed. Holy
Hutton! What a perfect safe the locker would
make! No thief could crack it, for the obvious
reason that it wouldn’t be locked. No thief would
want to clean it out. Vanning could fill the locker

104

ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION

with credit coupons and instantly they’d become
unrecognizable. It was the ideal cache.

How the devil did it work?

There was little use in asking Galloway. He
played by ear. A primrose by the river’s rim a
simple primrose was to him — not Primuta vulgaris.
Syllogisms were unknown to him. He reached the
conclusion without the aid of either major or
minor premises.

Vanning pondered. Two objects cannot occupy
the same space at the same time. Ergo, there was
a different sort of space in the locker —

But Vanning was jumping at conclusions. There
was another answer — the right one. He hadn’t
guessed it yet.

Instead, he tooled the speeder downtown to the
office building where he maintained a floor, and
brought the locker upstairs in the freight lift. He
didn’t put it in his private office; that would have
been too obvious. He placed the metal cabinet in
one of the storerooms, sliding a file cabinet in
front of it for partial concealment. It wouldn’t
do to have the clerks using this particular locker.

Vanning stepped back and considered. Per-
haps —

A bell rang softly. Preoccupied, Vanning didn’t
hear it at first. When he did, he went back to his
own office and pressed the acknowledgment but-
ton on the Winchell. The gray, harsh, bearded
face of Counsel Hatton appeared, filling the screen.

“Hello,” Vanning said.

Hatton nodded. “I’ve been trying to reach you
at your home. Thought I’d try the office — ”

“I didn’t expect you to call now. The trial’s
tomorrow. It’s a bit late for discussion, isn't it?"

“Dugan & Sons wanted me to speak to you. I
advised against it.”

.“Oh?”

Hatton’s thick gray brows drew together. “I’m
prosecuting, you know. There’s plenty of evidence
against Madison.”

“So you say. But peculation’s a difficult charge
to prove.”

“Did you get an injunction against scop?”

“Naturally,” Vanning said. “You’re not using
truth serum on ray client!”

TIME LOCKER

105

“That’ll prejudice the jury.”

“Not on medical grounds. Scop affects Mac-
Ilson harmfully. I’ve got a covering prognosis.”
“Harmfully is right!” Hatton's voice was
sharp. “Your client embezzled those bonds, and
I can prove it."

“Twenty-five thousand in credits, it comes to,
eh? That’s a lot for Dugan & Sons to lose. What
about that hypothetical case I posed? Suppose
twenty thousand were recovered — ”

“Is this a private beam? No recordings?”
“Naturally. Here’s the cut-off.” Vanning held
up a metal-tipped cord. “This strictly sub rosa.”
“Good,” Counsel Hatton said. “Then I can call
you a lousy shyster.”

••Tchr

“Your gag’s too old. It’s moth-eaten. Madison
swiped five grand in bonds, negotiable into credits.
The auditors start checking up. Madison comes
to you. You tell him to take twenty grand more,
and offer to return that twenty if Dugan & Sons
refuse to prosecute. Madison splits with you on
the five thousand, and on the plat standard, that
ain’t hay,”

“I don’t admit to anything like that.”

“Naturally you don’t, not even on a closed beam.
But it’s tacit. However, the gag’s moth-eaten,
and my clients won’t play ball with you. They’re
going to prosecute.”

“You called me up just to tell me that?’’

“No, I want to settle the jury question. Will
you agree to let ’em use scop on the panel?”

“O. K.,” Vanning said. He wasn’t depending on
a fixed jury tomorrow. His battle would be based
on legal technicalities. With scop-tested talesmen,
the odds would be even. And such an arrange-
ment would save days or weeks of argument and
challenge.

“Good,” Hatton grunted. “You’re going to get
your pants licked off.”

Vanning replied with a mild obscenity and
broke the connection. Reminded of the pending
court fight, he forced the matter of the fourth-
dimensional locker out of his mind and left the
office. Later-

Later would be time enough to investigate the
possibilities of the remarkable cabinet more thor-
oughly. Just now, he didn’t want his brain clut-
tered with nonessentials. He went to his apart-
ment, had the servant mix him a short highball,
and dropped into bed.

And. the next day, Vanning won his case. He
based it on complicated technicalities and obscure
legal precedents. The crux of the matter was that
the bonds had not been converted into government
credits. Abstruse economic charts proved that
point for Vanning. Conversion of even five thou-
sand credits would have caused a fluctuation in
the graph line, and no such break existed. Van-

ning’s experts went into monstrous detail.

In order to prove guilt, it would have been nec-
essary to show, either actually or by inference,
that the bonds had been in existence since last
December 20th, the date of their most recent
check-and-recording. The case of Donovan vs.
Jones stood as a precedent.

Hatton jumped to his feet. “Jones later con-
fessed to his defalcation, your honor!”

“Which does not affect the original decision,”
Vanning said smoothly. “Retroaction is not ad-
missible here. The verdict was not proven.”
“Counsel for the defense will continue,"
Counsel for the defense continued, building up
a beautifully intricate edifice of casuistic logic.
Hatton writhed. “Your honor! I — ”

“If my learned opponent can produce one bond
— just one of the bonds in question — 1 will con-
cede the case."

The presiding judge looked sardonic. “Indeed!
If such a piece of evidence could be produced, the
defendant would be jailed as fast as I could pro-
nounce sentence. You know that very well, Mr.
Vanning. Proceed.”

“Very well. My contention, then, is that the
bonds never existed. They were the result of a
clerical error in notation.”

“A clerical error in a Pederson Calculator?”
“Such errors have occurred, as I shall prove. If
I may call my next witness — ”

Unchallenged, the witness, a math technician,
explained how a Pederson Calculator can go hay-
wire. He cited cases.

Hatton caught him up on one point. “I protest
this proof. Rhodesia, as everyone knows, is the
location of a certain important experimental in-
dustry. Witness has refrained from stating the
nature of the work performed in this particular
Rhodesian factory. Is it not a fact that the Hen-
derson United Company deals largely in radioac-
tive ores?”

“Witness will answer.”

“I can’t. My records don’t include that infor-
mation.”

“A significant omission,” Hatton snapped.
“Radioactivity damages the intricate mechanism
of a Pederson Calculator. There is no radium
nor radium by-product in the offices of Dugan &
Sons.”

Vanning stood up. “May I ask if those offices
have been fumigated lately?”

“They have. It is legally required.”

“A type of chlorine gas was used?”

“Yes.”

“I wish to call my next witness.”

The next witness, a physicist and official in the
Ultra Radium Institute, explained that gamma
radiations affect chlorine strongly, causing ioniza-
tion. Living organisms could assimilate by-prod-
ucts of radium and transmit them in turn. Cer-

106

ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION

tain clients of Dugan & Sons had been in contact
with radioactivity —

“This is ridiculous, your honor! Pure theori-
zation — ”

Vanning looked hurt. “I cite the case of Dan-
gerfield vs. Austro Products, California, 1963.
Ruling states that the uncertainty factor is prime
admissible evidence. My point is simply that the
Pederson Calculator which recorded the bonds
could have been in error. If this be true, there
were no bonds, and my client is guiltless.”
“Counsel will continue,” said the judge, wishing
he were Jeffries so he could send the whole
damned bunch to the scaffold. Jurisprudence
should be founded on justice, and not be a three-
dimensional chess game. But, of course, it was
the natural development of the complicated po-
litical and economic factors of modern civiliza-
tion. It was already evident that Vanning would
win his case.

And he did. The jury was directed to find for
the defendant. On a last, desperate hope, Hatton
raised a point of order and demanded scop, but
his petition was denied. Vanning winked at his
opponent and closed his brief case.

That was that.

Vanning returned to his office. At four-thirty
that afternoon trouble started to break. The sec-
retary announced a Mr. Madison, and was pushed
aside by a thin, dark, middle-aged man lugging a
gigantic suedette suitcase.

“Vanning! I’ve got to see you — ”

The attorney’s eyes hooded. He rose from be-
hind his desk, dismissing the secretary with a jerk
of his head. As the door closed. Vanning said
brusquely, “What are you doing here? I told you
to stay away from me. What’s in that bag?”
“The bonds,” Madison explained, his voice un-
steady. “Something’s gone wrong — ”

“You crazy fool! Bringing the bonds here — ”
With a leap Vanning was at the door, locking it,
“Don’t you realize that if Hatton gets his hands
on that paper, you’ll be yanked back to jail? And
I’ll be disbarred! Get ’em out of here.”

“Listen a minute, will you? I took the bonds
to Finance Unity, as you told me, but . , , but
there was an officer there, waiting for me. I saw
him just in time. If he’d caught me — ”

Vanning took a deep breath. “You were sup-
posed to leave the bonds in that subway locker for
two months.”

Madison pulled a news sheet from his pocket,
“But the government’s declared a freeze on ore
stocks and bonds. It’ll go into effect in a week.
I couldn’t wait — the money would have been tied
up indefinitely.”

“Let’s see that paper.” Vanning examined it
and cursed softly. “Where’d you get this?”
“Bought it from a boy outside the jail. I wanted

to check the current ore quotations.”

“Uh-huh. I see. Did it occur to you that this
sheet might be faked?”

Madison’s jaw dropped. “Fake?”

“Exactly. Hatton figured I might spring you,
and had this paper ready. You bit. You led the
police right to the evidence, and a swell spot
you’ve put me in,”

“B-but — ”

Vanning grimaced. “Why do you suppose you
saw that cop at Finance Unity? They could have
nabbed you any time. But they wanted to scare
you into heading for my office, so they could
catch both of us on the same hook. Prison for
you, disbarment for me. Oh, hell!”

Madison licked his lips. "Can’t I get out a
back door?”

“Through the cordon that’s undoubtedly wait-
ing? Orbs! Don’t be more of a sap than you can
help."

“Can’t you — hide the stuff?”

"Where? They’ll ransack this office with X
rays. No, I’ll just — ” Vanning stopped. “Oh.
Hide it. you said. Hide it — ”

He whirled to the dictograph. “Miss Horton?
I’m in conference. Don’t disturb me for anything.
If anybody hands you a search warrant, insist on
verifying it through headquarters. Got me ?

O. K.”

Hope had returned to Madison’s face. “Is it
all right?”

“Oh, shut up!” Vanning snapped. “Wait here
for me. Be back directly.” He headed for a side
door and vanished. In a surprisingly short time
he returned, awkwardly lugging a metal cabinet.

“Help me . . . uh! . . . here. In this corner. Now
get out.”

“But — ”

“Flash,” Vanning ordered. “Everything’s under
control. Don’t talk. You’ll be arrested, but they
can't hold you without evidence. Come back as
soon as you’re sprung.” He urged Madison to
the door, unlocked it, and thrust the man through.
After that, he returned to the cabinet, swung open
the door, and peered in. Empty. Sure.

The suedette suitcase —

Vanning worked it into the locker, breathing
hard. It took a little time, since the valise was
larger than the metal cabinet. But at last he re-
laxed, watching the brown case shrink and alter
its outline till it was tiny and distorted, the shape
of an elongated egg, the color of a copper cent
piece.

“Whew!” Vanning said.

Then he leaned closer, staring. Inside the
locker, something was moving. A grotesque little
creature less than four inches tall was visible. It
was a shocking object, all cubes and angles, a
bright green in tint, and it was obviously alive.
Someone knocked on the door.

TIME LOCKER

107

The tinjr— thing — was busy with the copper-col-
ored egg. Like an ant, it was lifting the egg and
trying to pull it away. Vanning gasped and
reached into the locker. The fourth-dimensional
creature dodged. It wasn’t quick enough. Van-
ning’s hand descended, and he felt wriggling
movement against his palm.

He squeezed.

The movement stopped. He let go of the dead
thing and pulled his hand back swiftly.

The door shook under the impact of fists.
Vanning closed the locker and called, “Just a
minute.”

“Break it down,” somebody ordered.

But that wasn’t necessary. Vanning put a pain-
ful smile on his face and turned the key. Counsel
Hatton came in, accompanied by bulky policemen.
“We’ve got Madison,” he said.

“Oh? Why?”

For answer Hatton jerked his hand. The offi-
cers began to search the room. Vanning shrugged.

“You’ve jumped the gun,” he said. “Breaking
and entering — ”

“We’ve got a warrant.’*

“Charge?”

“The bonds, of course.” Hatton’s voice was
weary. “I don’t know where you’ve hid that suit-
case, but we’ll find it.”

“What suitcase?” Vanning wanted to know.
“The one Madison had when he came in. The
one he didn’t have when he went out.”

“The game,” Vanning said sadly, “is up. You
win.”

“Eh?”

“If I tell you what I did with the suitcase, will
you put in a good word for me?”

“Why . , . yeah. Where—”

“I ate it,” Vanning said, and retired to the
couch, where he settled himself for a nap. Hat-
ton gave him a long, hating look. The officers
tore in —

They passed by the locker, after a casual glance
inside. The X rays revealed nothing, in walls,
floor, ceiling, or articles of furniture. The other
offices were searched, too. Vanning applauded
the painstaking job.

In the end, Hatton gave up. There was noth-
ing else he could do.

“I’ll clap suit on you tomorrow,” Vanning prom-
ised. “Same time I get a habeas corpus on Mac-
Ilson.”

“Step to hell,” Hatton growled.

“ ’By now.”

Vanning waited till his unwanted guests had
departed. Then, chuckling quietly, he went to the
locker and opened it.

The copper-colored egg that represented the
suedette suitcase had vanished. Vanning groped
inside the locker, finding nothing.

The significance of this didn’t strike Vanning
at first. He swung the cabinet around so that it
faced the window. He looked again, with iden-
tical results.

The locker was empty.

Twenty-five thousand credits in negotiable ore
bonds had disappeared.

Vanning started to sweat. He picked up the
metal box and shook it. That didn’t help. He
carried it across the room and set it up in another
corner, returning to search the floor with pains-
taking accuracy. Holy —

Hatton?

No. Vanning hadn’t let the locker out of his
sight from the time the police had entered till
they left. An officer had swung open the cabi-
net’s door, looked inside, and closed it again.
After that the door had remained shut, till just
now.

The bonds were gone.

So was the abnormal little creature Vanning
had crushed. All of which meant — what?

Vanning approached the locker and closed it,
clicking the latch into position. Then he re-
opened it, not really expecting that the copper-
colored egg would reappear.

He was right. It didn’t.

Vanning staggered to the Winchell and called
Galloway.

“Whatzit? Huh? Oh. What do you want?” The
scientist’s gaunt face appeared on the screen,
rather the worse for wear. “I got a hangover.
Can’t use thiamin, either. I’m allergic to it.
How’d your case come out?”

“Listen.” Galloway said urgently, “I put some-
thing inside that damn locker of yours and now
it’s gone,”

“The locker? That’s funny.”

“No! The thing I put in it, A ... a suit-
case.”

Galloway shook his head thoughtfully. “You
never know, do you? I remember once I made
a — ”

“The hell with that. I want that suitcase back!”

“An heirloom?” Galloway suggested.

“No, there’s money in it.”

“Wasn’t that a little foolish of you? There
hasn’t been a bank failure since 1949. Never sus-
pected you were a miser, Vanning. Like to have
the stuff around, so you can run it through your
birdlike fingers, ch?”

“You’re drunk,”

“I’m tTying" Galloway corrected. “But I’ve
built up an awful resistance over a period of years.
It takes time. Your call’s already set me back
two and a half drinks. I must put an extension
on the siphon, so I can Winchell and guzzle at
the same time.”

Vanning almost chattered incoherently into the

108

ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION

mike. “My suitcase! What happened to it? I
want it back.”

“Well, I haven’t got it.”

“Can’t you find out where it is?”

“Dunno. Tell me the details. I’ll see what
I can figure out.”

Vanning complied, revising his story as cau-
tion prompted.

“O. K.,” Galloway said at last, rather unwill-
ingly. “I hate working out theories, but just as
a favor. . . . My diagnosis will cost you fifty
credits.”

“What? Now listen — ”

“Fifty credits,” Galloway repeated unflinch-
ingly. “Or no prognosis."

“How do I know you can get it back for me?”
“Chances are I can’t. Still, maybe . . . I’ll
have to go over to Mechanistra and use some of
their machines. They charge a good bit, too.
But I’ll need forty-brain-power calculators—”

“O. K., O. K. !” Vanning growled. “Hop to it.
I want that suitcase back.”

“What interests me is that little bug you
squashed. In fact, that’s the only reason I’m
tackling your problem. Life in the fourth di-
mension — ” Galloway trailed off, murmuring.
His face faded from the screen. After a while
Vanning broke the connection.

He re-examined the locker, finding nothing new.
Yet the suedette suitcase had vanished from it,
into thin air. Oh, hell!

Brooding over his sorrows, Vanning shrugged
into a top coat and dined vinously at the Man-
hattan Roof. He felt very sorry for himself.

The next day he felt even sorrier. A call to
Galloway had given the blank signal, so Vanning
had to mark time. About noon Madison dropped
in. His nerves were shot.

"You took your time in springing me,” he
started immediately. “Well, what now? Have
you got a drink anywhere around?”

“You don’t need a drink,” Vanning grunted.
“You’ve got a skinful already, by the look of you.
Run down to Florida and wait till this blows
over.”

“I'm sick of waiting. I’m going to South
America. I want some credits.”

“Wait’ll I arrange to cash the bonds.”

“I’ll take the bonds. A fair half, as we agreed.”
Vanning’s eyes narrowed. “And walk out into
the hands of the police. Sure.”

Madison looked uncomfortable. “I’ll admit I
made a boner. But this time — no. I’ll play smart
now.”

“You’ll wait, you mean.”

“There’s a friend of mine on the roof parking
lot, in a helicopter. I’ll go up and slip him the
bonds, and then I’ll just walk out. The police
won’t find anything on me.”

“I said no,” Vanning repeated. “It’s too dan-
gerous.”

“It’s dangerous as things are. If they locate
the bonds — ”

“They won’t.”

"Where’d you hide ’em?”

“That’s my business.”

Madison glowered nervously. “Maybe. But
they’re in this building. You couldn’t have fe-
nagled ’em out yesterday before the cops came.
No use playing your luck too far. Did they use
X rays?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, I heard Counsel Hatton’s got a batch
of experts going over the blueprints on this build-
ing. He’ll find your safe. I’m getting out of
here before he does.”

Vanning patted the air. “You’re hysterical.
I’ve taken care of you, haven’t I? Even though
you almost screwed the whole thing up.”

"Sure,” Madison said, pulling at his lip. “But
I — ” He chewed a fingernail. "Oh, damn! I’m
sitting on the edge of a volcano with termites
under me. I can’t stay here and wait till they
find the bonds. They can’t extradite me from
South America — where I’m going, anyway.”
“You’re going to wait,” Vanning said firmly.
“That’s your best chance.”

There was suddenly a gun in Madison’s hand.
“You’re going to give me half the bonds. Right
now. I don’t trust you a little bit. You figure
you can stall me along — hell, get those bonds!”
“No,” Vanning said.

“I’m not kidding.”

“I know you aren’t. I can’t get the bonds.”
“Eh? Why not?”

“Ever heard of a time lock?” Vanning asked,
his eyes watchful. “You’re right; I put the suit-
case in a concealed safe. But I can’t open that
safe till a certain number of hours have passed.”
“Mm-m.” Madison pondered. “When — ”
“Tomorrow.”

“All right. You’ll have the bonds for me then?”
“If you want them. But you’d better change
your mind. It’d be safer.”

For answer Madison grinned over his shoulder
as he went out. Vanning sat motionless for a
long time. He was, frankly, scared.

The trouble was, Madison was a manic-depres-
sive type. He’d kill. Right now, he was cracking
under the strain, and imagining himself a des-
perate fugitive. Well — precautions would be ad-
visable.

Vanning called Galloway again, but got no an-
swer. He left a message on the recorder and
thoughtfully looked into the locker again. It was
empty, depressingly so.

That evening Galloway let Vanning into his
laboratory. The scientist looked both tired and

TIME LOCKER

109

drunk. He waved comprehensively toward a table,
covered with scraps o£ paper.

“What a headache you gave me! If I’d known
the principles behind that gadget, I'd have been
afraid to tackle it. Sit down. Have a drink. Got
the fifty credits?”

Silently Vanning handed over the coupons.
Galloway shoved them into Monstro. “Fine.
Now — ” He settled himself on the couch. “Now
we start. The fifty credit question.”

“Can I get the suitcase back?”

“No,” Galloway said flatly. “At least, I don’t
see how it can be worked. It’s in another spatio-
temporal sector.”

“Just what does that mean?”

“It means the locker works something like a
telescope, only the thing isn’t merely visual. The
locker's a window, I figure. You can reach
through it as well as look through it. It’s an
opening into Now plus x.”

Vanning scowled. “So far you haven’t said
anything.”

“So far all I’ve got is theory, and that’s all I’m
likely to get. Look. I was wrong originally.
The things that went into the locker didn’t appear
in another space, because there would have been
a spatial constant. I mean, they wouldn’t have
got smaller. Size is size. Moving a one-inch cube
from here to Mars wouldn’t make it any larger
or smaller,”

“What about a different density in the surround-
ing medium? Wouldn’t that crush an object?”
“Sure, and it’d stay squashed. It wouldn’t re-
turn to its former size and shape when it was
taken out of the locker again. X plus y never
equal xy. But x times y — ”

“So?”

“That’s a pun,’' Galloway broke off to explain.
“The things we put in the locker went into time.
Their time-rate remained constant, but not the
spatial relationships. Two things can’t occupy
the same place at the same time. Ergo, your suit-
case went into a different time. Now plus x. And
what X represents I don’t know, though I suspect
a few million years.”

Vanning looked dazed. “The suitcase is a mil-
lion years in the future?”

“Dunno how far, but — I’d say plenty. I haven't
enough factors to finish the equation. I reasoned
by induction, mostly, and the results are screwy
as hell. Einstein would have loved it. My theorem
shows that the universe is expanding and con-
tracting at the same time.”

“What’s that got to do—”

“Motion is relative,” Galloway continued inex-
orably. “That’s a basic principle. Well, the Uni-,
verse is expanding, spreading out like a gas, but
its component parts are shrinking at the same
time. The parts don’t actually grow, you know —
not the suns and atoms. They just run away

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ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION

from the central point. Galloping off in all di-
rections . . . where was I? Oh. Actually, the
Universe, taken as a unit, is shrinking.”

“So it’s shrinking. Where’s my suitcase?”

“I told you. In the future. Inductive reason-
ing showed that. It’s beautifully simple and
logical. And it's quite impossible of proof, too.
A hundred, a thousand, a million years ago the
Earth — the Universe — was larger than it is now.
And it continues to contract. Sometime in the
future the Earth will be just half as small as
it is now. Only we won’t notice it because the
Universe will be proportionately smaller.”

Galloway went on dreamily. “We put a work-
bench into the locker, so it emerged sometime
in the future. The locker’s an open window into
a different time, as I told you. Well, the bench
was affected by the conditions of that period. It
shrank, after we gave it a few seconds to soak
up the entropy or something. Do I mean entropy?
Allah knows. Oh, well.”

“It turned into a pyramid.”

“Maybe there’s geometric distortion, too. Or
it might be a visual illusion. Perhaps we can’t get
the exact focus. I doubt if things will really
look different in the future — except that they’ll
be smaller — but we’re using a window into the
fourth dimension. We’re taking a pleat in time.
It must be like looking through a prism. The
alteration in size is real, but the shape and color
are altered to our eyes by the fourth-dimensional
prism.”

“The whole point, then, is that my suitcase is
in the future. Eh? But why did it disappear
from the locker?”

“What about that little creature you squashed?
Maybe he had pals. They wouldn’t be visible till
they came into the very narrow focus of the
whatchmaycallit, but — figure it out. Sometime in
the future, in a hundred or a thousand or a mil-
lion years, a suitcase suddenly appears out of thin
air. One of our descendants investigates. You
kill him. His pals come along and carry the suit-
case away, out of range of the locker. In space
it may be anywhere, and the time factor’s an un-
known quantity. Now plus x. It’s a time locker.
Well?”

“Hell!” Vanning exploded. “So that’s all you
can tell me? I’m supposed to chalk it up to profit
and loss?”

“Uh-huh. Unless you want to crawl into the
locker yourself after your suitcase. Lord knows
where you’d come out, though. The proportions
of the air probably would have changed in a few
thousand years. There might be other alterations,
too.”

“I’m not that crazy.”

So there he was. The bonds were gone, beyond
hope of redemption. Vanning could resign him-

self to that loss, once he knew the securities
wouldn’t fall into the hands of the police. But
Madison was another matter, especially after a
bullet spattered against the glassolex window of
Vanning's office.

An interview with Madison had proved unsat-
isfactory. The defaulter was convinced that Van-
ning was trying to bilk him. He was removed
forcibly, yelling threats. He’d go to the police
— he’d confess —

Let him. There was no proof. The hell with
him. But, for safety’s sake, Vanning clapped an
injunction on his quondam client.

It didn’t land. Madison clipped the official on
the jaw and fled. Now. Vanning suspected, he
lurked in dark corners, armed, and anxious to com-
mit homicide. Obviously a manic-depressive type.

Vanning took a certain malicious pleasure in de-
manding a couple of plain-clothes men to act as his
guards. Legally, he was within his rights, since
his life had been threatened. Until Madison was
under sufficient restriction. Vanning would be
protected. And he made sure that his guards
were two of the best shots on the Manhattan force.

He also found out that they had been told to
keep their eyes peeled for the missing bonds and
the suedette suitcase. Vanning Winchelled Coun-
sel Hatton and grinned at the screen.

“Any luck yet?”

“What do you mean?”

“My watchdogs. Your spies. They won’t find
the bonds, Hatton. Better call ’em off. Why
make the poor devils do two jobs at once?”

“One job would be enough. Finding the evi-
dence. If Madison drilled you, I wouldn’t be too
unhappy.”

“Well, I'll see you in court,” Vanning said.
“You’re prosecuting Watson, aren’t you?”

“Yes. Are you waiving scop?”

“On the jurors? Sure. I’ve got this case in
the bag.”

“That’s what you think,” Hatton said, and broke
the beam.

Chuckling, Vanning donned his topcoat, col-
lected the guards, and headed for court. There
was no sign of Madison —

Vanning won the case, as he had expected. He
returned to his offices, collected a few unimpor-
tant messages from the switchboard girl, and
walked toward his private suite. As he opened
the door, he saw the suedette suitcase on the car-
pet in one corner.

He stopped, hand frozen on the latch. Behind
him he could hear the heavy footsteps of the
guards. Over his shoulder Vanning said, “Wait
a minute,” and dodged into the office, slamming
and locking the door behind him. He caught the
tail end of a surprised question.

The suitcase. There it was, unequivocally. And,
quite as unequivocally, the two plain-clothes men.

TIME LOCKER

111

after a very brief conference, were hammering on
the door, trying to break it down.

Vanning turned green. He took a hesitant step
forward, and then saw the locker, in the corner to
which he had moved it. The time locker —

That was it. If he shoved the suitcase inside
the locker, it would become unrecogni2able. Even
if it vanished again, that wouldn’t matter. What
mattered was the vital importance of getting rid
—immediately! — of incriminating evidence.

The door rocked on its hinges. Vanning scut-
tled toward the suitcase and picked it up. From
the corner of his eye he saw movement.

In the air above him, a hand had appeared. It
was the hand of a giant, with an immaculate cuff
fading into emptiness. Its huge fingers were
reaching down —

Vanning screamed and sprang away. He was
too slow. The hand descended, and Vanning
wriggled impotently against the palm.

The hand contracted into a fist. When it
opened, what was left of Vanning dropped
squashily to the carpet, which it stained.

The hand withdrew into nothingness. The door
fell in and the plain-clothes men stumbled over it
as they entered.

It didn’t take long for Hatton and his cohorts
to arrive. Still, there was little for them to do
except clean up the mess. The suedette bag, con-
taining twenty-five thousand credits in negotiable
bonds, was carried oif to a safer place. Vanning’s
body was scraped up and removed to the morgue.
Photographers Hashed pictures, fingerprint ex-
perts insufflated their white powder, X ray men
worked busily. It was all done with swift effi-
ciency, so that within an hour the office was
empty and the door sealed.

Thus there were no spectators to witness the
advent of a gigantic hand that appeared from
nothingness, groped around as though searching
for something, and presently vanished once
more—

The only person who could have thrown light
on the matter was Galloway, and his remarks were
directed to Monstro, in the solitude of his labora-
tory. All he said was:

“So that’s why that workbench materialized for
a few minutes here yesterday. Hm-m-m. Now
plus X — and x equals about a week. Still, why not?
It’s all relative. But — I never thought the Uni-
verse was shrinking that fast!”

He relaxed on the couch and siphoned a double
Martini.

“Yeah, that’s it,” he murmured after a while.
“Whew! I guess Vanning must have been the
only guy who ever reached into the middle of next
week and — killed himself! I think I’ll get tight.”

And he did.

THE END.

FISHING WORMS . . .

COMPLETE WITH

HALO AND WINGS!

Charlie Wills
knew something was
wrong. In (act, many
things were wrong. Like: o
worm with wings and halo; a
bad case o( sunburn — from the
rain; a coin in a museum that turned into a wild duck.
Such things didn't happen to people (except Charlie).
And a great many other disturbing events occurred, un-
til Charlie was nearly driven to suicide. But it had a
perfectly sane, logical explanation. You won't be able
to put the story down until you find out just why the an-

UMNDWIV WORLDS

FEBRUARY

ty O

112

EISEWHEN

By Anthony Boncher

"My dear Agatha,” Mr. Partridge announced at
the breakfast table, “I have invented the world’s
first successful time machine.”

His sister showed no signs of being impressed.
*‘I suppose this will run the electric bill up even
higher,” she observed. “Have you ever stopped to
consider, Harrison, what that workshop of yours
costs us?”

Mr. Ptw^tridge listened meekly to the inevitable
lecture. When it was over, he protested, “But,
my dear, you have just listened to an announce*
ment that no woman on earth has ever heard
before. For ages man has dreamed of visiting
the past and the future. Since the development
of modern time-theory, he has even had some
notion of how it might be accomplished. But
never before in human history has anyone pro-
duced an actual working model of a time-traveling
machine.”

“Hm-m-m,” said Agatha Partridge. “What good
is it?”

“Its possibilities are untold.” Mr. Partridge’s
pale little eyes lit up. “We can observe our
pasts and perhaps even correct their errors. We
can learn the secrets of the ancients. We can
plot the uncharted course of the future — new
conquistadors invading brave new continents of
unmapped time. We can — ”

“Will anyone pay money for that?”

“They will flock to me to pay it,” said Mr.
Partridge smugly.

His sister began to look impressed. “And how

113

far can you Crave! with your time machine?”

Mr. Partridge buttered a piece of toast with
absorbed concentration, but it was no use. His
sister repeated the question: “How far can you
go?”

• Thefirstpracticaltime machine
in the hands of an impractical
man may lead to unnecessary
murder and unnecessary suicide
— but it makes a perfect alibi-

“Not very far,” Mr. Partridge admitted reluc-
tantly. “In fact,” he added hastily as he saw a
more specific question forming, “hardly at all.
And only one way. But remember,” he went
on, gathering courage, “the Wright brothers did
not cross the Atlantic in their first model. Mar-
coni did not launch radio with a world-wide broad-
cast. This is only the beginning and from this
seed — ”

Agatha’s brief interest had completely subsided.
“I thought so,” she said. “You’d still better watch
the electric bill.”

It would be that way, Mr. Partridge thought,
wherever he went, whomever he saw. “How far
can you go?” “Hardly at all.” “Good day, sir.”
People have no imagination. They cannot be
made to see that to move along the time line with
free volitional motion, unconditioned by the re-
lentless force that pushes mankind along at the
unchanging rate of — how shall one put it— one
second per second — that to do this for even one
little fraction of a second was as great a miracle
as to zoom spectacularly ahead to 5900 A. D. He
had, he could remember, felt disappointed at first
himself —

The discovery had been made by accident. An
experiment which he was working on — part of his
long and fruitless attempt to recreate by modern
scientific method the supposed results described
in ancient alchemical works — had necessitated the
setting up of a powerful magnetic field. And part
of the apparatus within this field was a chronom-
eter.

114

ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION

Mr. Partridge noted the time
when he began his experiment.
It was exactly fourteen seconds
after nine thirty-one. And it
was precisely at that moment
that the tremor came. It was
not a serious shock. To one
who, like Mr. Partridge, had
spent the past twenty years in
southern California it was hardly
noticeable, beyond the bother of
a broken glass tube which had
rolled off a table. But when he
looked back at the chronometer,
the dial read ten thirteen.

Time can pass quickly when
you are absorbed in your work,
but not so quickly as all that.
Mr. Partridge looked at his
pocket watch. It said nine
thirty-two. Suddenly, in a space
of seconds, the best chronometer
available had gained forty-two
minutes.

The more Mr. Partridge con-
sidered the matter, the more ir-
resistibly one chain of logic
forced itself upon him. The
chronometer was accurate ; there-
fore it had registered those
forty-two minutes correctly. It
had not registered them here and
now; therefore the shock had
jarred it to where it could regis-
ter them. It had not moved in
any of the three dimensions of
space; therefore —

The chronometer had gone
back in time forty-two minutes,
and had registered those min-
utes in reaching the present
again. Or was it only a matter
of minutes? The chronometer
was an eight-day one. Might it
have been twelve hours and
forty-two minutes? Forty-eight
hours? Ninety-six? A hundred
and ninety- two?

And why and how and — the
dominant question in Mr. Par-
tridge’s mind — could the same
device be made to work with a
living being?

He had been musing for al-
most five minutes. It was now
nine thirty-seven, and the dial
read ten eighteen. Experiment-
ing at random, he switched off
the electromagnet, waited a mo-
ment, and turned it on again.

The chronometer now read
eleven o’clock.

Mr. Partridge remarked that
he would be damned — a curiously
prophetic remark in view of the
fact that this great discovery was
to turn him into a murderer.

It would be fruitless to relate
in detail the many experiments
which Mr. Partridge eagerly
performed to verify and check
his discovery. They were purely
empirical in nature, for Mr. Par-
tridge was that type of inventor
which is short on theory but
long on gadgetry. He did frame
a very rough working hypothesis
— that the sudden shock had
caused the magnetic field to ro-
tate into the temporal dimension,
where it set up a certain — he
groped for words — a certain
negative potential of entropy,
which drew things backward in
time. But he would leave the
doubtless highly debatable
theory to the academicians.
What he must do was perfect
the machine, render it generally
usable, and then burst forth upon
an astonished world as Harri-
son Partridge, the first time trav-
eler. His dry little ego glowed
and expanded at the prospect.

There were the experiments in
artificial shock which produced
synthetically the earthquake ef-
fect. There were the experi-
ments with the white mice which
proved that the journey through
time was harmless to life. There
were the experiments with the
chronometer which established
that the time traversed varied di-
rectly as the square of the power
expended on the electromagnet.

But these experiments also es-
tablished that the time elapsed
had not been twelve hours nor
any multiple thereof, but simply
forty-two minutes. And with
the equipment at his disposal, it
was impossible for Mr. Partridge
to stretch that period any fur-
ther than a trifle under two
hours.

This, Mr. Partridge told him-
self, was ridiculous. Time travel
at such short range, and only

to the past, entailed no possible
advantages. Oh, perhaps some
piddling ones — once, after the
mice had convinced him that he
could safely venture himself, he
had a lengthy piece of calcula-
tion which he wished to finish
before dinner. An hour was
simply not time enough for it;
so at six o’clock he moved him-
self back to five again, and by
working two hours in the space
from five to six finished his task
easily by dinner time. And one
evening when, in his preoccupa-
tion, he had forgotten his favo-
rite radio quiz program until it
was ending, it was simplicity it-
self to go back to the beginning
and comfortably hear it through.

But though such trifling uses
as this might be an important
part of the work of the time
machine once it was established
— possibly the strongest commer-
cial sellifjg point for inexpen-
sive home sets — they were not
spectacular or startling enough
to make the reputation of the
machine and — more important —
the reputation of Harrison Par-
tridge.

The Great Harrison Partridge
would have untold wealth. He
could pension off his sister
Agatha and never have to see
her again. He would have un-
told prestige and glamour, de-
spite his fat and his baldness,
and the beautiful and aloof
Faith Preston would fall into his
arms like a ripe plum. He
would —

It was while he was indulging
in one of these dreams of power
that Faith Preston herself en-
tered his workshop. She was
wearing a white sports dress
and looking so fresh and im-
maculate that the whole room
seemed to glow with her pres-
ence. She was all the youth and
loveliness that had passed Mr.
Partridge by, and his pulse gal-
loped at her entrance.

“I came out here before I saw
your sister,” she said. Her voice
was as cool and bright as her
dress. “I wanted you to be the
first to know. Simon and I are

ELSEWHEN

115

going to be married next
month.”

Mr. Partridge never remem-
bered what was said after that.
He imagined that she made her
usual comments about the shock-
ing disarray of his shop and her
usual polite inquiries as to his
current researches. He imag-
ined that he offered the conven-
tional good wishes and extended
his congratulations, too, to that
damned young whippersnapper
Simon Ash. But all his thoughts
were that he wanted her and
needed her and that the great,
the irresistible Harrison Par-
tridge must come into being be-
fore next month.

Money. That was it. Money.
With money he could build the
tremendous machinery necessary
to carry a load of power — and
money was needed for that
power, too — that would produce
truly impressive results. To
travel back even so much as a
quarter of a century would be
enough to dazzle the world. To
appear at the Versailles peace
conference, say. and expound to
the delegates the inevitable re-
sults of their too lenient — or too
strict? — terms. Or with unlim-
ited money to course down the
centuries, down the millennia,
bringing back lost arts, forgot-
ten secrets —

Money —

“Hm-m-m!” said Agatha.
“Still mooning after that girl?
Don’t be an old fool.”

He had not seen Agatha come
in. He did not quite see her
now. He saw a sort of vision
of a cornucopia that would give
him money that would give him
the apparatus that would give
him his time machine that would
give him success that would give
him Faith.

“If you must moon instead of
working — if indeed you call this
work — you might at least turn
off a few switches,” Agatha
snapped. “Do you think we’re
made of money?”

Mechanically he obeyed.

“It makes you sick,” Agatha
droned on, “when you think how

some people spend their money.
Cousin Stanley! Hiring this
Simon Ash as a secretary for
nothing on earth but to look
after his library and his collec-
tions. So much money he can’t
do anything but waste it! And
all Great-uncle Max’s money
coming to him too, when we
could use it so nicely. If only it
weren't for Cousin Stanley, I’d
be an heiress. And then — ”

Mr. Partridge was about to ob-
serve that even as an heiress
Agatha would doubtless have
been the same intolerant old
maid. But two thoughts checked
his tongue. One was the sudden
surprising revelation that even
Agatha had her inner yearnings,
too. And the other was an over-
whelming feeling of gratitude to
her.

“Yes,” Mr. Partridge repeated
slowly. “If it weren’t for Cou-
sin Stanley — ”

By means as simple as this,
murderers are made.

The chain of logic was so
strong that moral questions
hardly entered into the situa-
tion.

Great-uncle Max was infinitely
old. That he should live an-
other year was out of the ques-
tion. And if his son Stanley
were to predecease him, then
Harrison and Agatha Partridge
would be his only living rela-
tives. And Maxwell Harrison
was as infinitely rich as he was
infinitely old.

Therefore Stanley must die.
His life served no good end.
Mr. Partridge understood that
there are economic theories ac-
cording to which conspicuous
waste serves its purposes, but
he did not care to understand
them. Stanley alive was worth
nothing. Stanley dead cleared
the way for the enriching of the
world by one of the greatest dis-
coveries of mankind, which in-
cidentally entailed great wealth
and prestige for Mr. Partridge.
And — a side issue, perhaps, but
nonetheless as influential — the
death of Stanley would leave his

secretary Simon Ash without a
job and certainly postpone his
marriage to Faith, leaving her
time to realize the full worth of
Mr, Partridge.

Stanley must die, and his
death must be accomplished with
a maximum of personal safety.
The means for that safety were
at hand. For the one completely
practical purpose of a short-
range time machine, Mr. Par-
tridge had suddenly realized,
was to provide an alibi for mur-
der.

The chief difficulty was in con-
triving a portable version of the
machine which would operate
over any considerable period of
time. The first model had a
traveling range of two minutes.
But by the end of a week, Mr.
Partridge had constructed a
portable time machine which was
good for forty-five minutes. He
needed nothing more save a
sharp knife. There was, Mr.
Partridge thought, something
crudely horrifying about guns.

That Friday afternoon he en-
tered Cousin Stanley’s library
at five o’clock. This was an hour
when the eccentric man of
wealth always devoted himself
to quiet and scholarly contem-
plation of his treasures. The
butler, Bracket, had been reluc-
tant to announce him, but “Tell
my cousin,” Mr. Partridge said,
“that I have discovered a new
entry for his bibliography,”

The most recent of Cousin
Stanley’s collecting manias was
fiction based upon factual mur-
ders. He had already built up
the definitive library on the sub-
ject. Soon he intended to pub-
lish the definitive bibliography.
And the promise of a new item
was an assured open-sesame.

The ponderous gruff joviality
of Stanley Harrison’s greeting
took no heed of the odd appa-
ratus he carried. Everyone knew
that Mr. Partridge was a crack-
pot inventor. That he should be
carrying a strange framework of
wires and magnets occasioned no
more surprise than that an au-

116

ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION

thor should carry a sheaf of
manuscript.

“Bracket tells me you’ve got
something for me,” Cousin
Stanley boomed. “Glad to hear
it. Have a drink? What is it?”

“No thank you.” Something
in Mr. Partridge rebelled at ac-
cepting the hospitality of his
victim. “A Hungarian friend of
mine was mentioning a novel
about one Bela Kiss.”

“Kiss?” Cousin Stanley’s face
lit up with a broad beam.
“Splendid! Never could see why
no one used him before. Woman
killer. Landru type. Always
fascinating. Kept ’em in empty
gasoline tins. Never would have
been caught if there hadn’t been
a gasoline shortage. Constable
thought he was hoarding,
checked the tins, found corpses.
Beautiful! Now if you’ll give
me the details — ”

Cousin Stanley, pencil poised
over a P-slip, leaned over the
desk. And Mr. Partridge struck.

He had checked the anatomy
of the blow, just as he had
checked the name of an obscure
but interesting murderer. The
knife went truly home, and there
was a gurgle and the terrible
spastic twitch of dying flesh.

Mr. Partridge was now an heir
and a murderer, but he had time
to be conscious of neither fact.
He went through his carefully
rehearsed motions, his mind
numb and blank. He latched the
windows of the library and
locked each door. This was to
be an impossible crime, one that
could never conceivably be
proved on him or on any inno-
cent.

Mr. Partridge stood beside the
corpse in the midst of the per-
fectly locked room. It was four
minutes past five. He screamed
twice, very loudly, in an unrec-
ognizably harsh voice. Then he
plugged his portable instrument
into a floor outlet and turned a
switch.

It was four nineteen. Mr.
Partridge unplugged his ma-
chine. The room was empty and
the door open. Mr. Partridge’s

gaze went to the desk. He felt,
against all reason and knowl-
edge, that there should be blood
— some trace at least of what he
had already done, of what was
not to happen for three quarters
of an hour yet.

Mr. Partridge knew his way
reasonably well about his cou-
sin’s house. He got out without
meeting anyone. He tucked the
machine into the rumble seat of
his car and drove off to Faith
Preston’s. Toward the end of
his long journey across town he
carefully drove through a traffic
light and received a citation
noting the time as four fifty. He
reached Faith’s at four fifty-four,
ten minutes before the murder
he had just committed.

Simon Ash had been up all
Thursday night cataloguing
Stanley Harrison's latest acquisi-
tions. Still he had risen at his
usual hour that Friday to get
through the morning’s mail be-
fore his luncheon date with
Faith. By four thirty that after-
noon. he was asleep on his feet.

He knew that his employer
would be coming into the li-
brary in half an hour. And
Stanley Harrison liked solitude
for his daily five-o’clock gloating
and meditation. But the secre-
tary’s work desk was hidden
around a corner of the library’s
stacks, and no other physical
hunger can be quite so domi-
nantly compelling as the need
for sleep.

Simon Ash’s shaggy blond
head sank onto the desk. His
sleep-heavy hand shoved a pile
of cards to the floor, and his
mind only faintly registered the
thought that they would all have
to be alphabetized again. He
was too sleepy to think of any-
thing but pleasant things, like
the sailboat at Balboa which
brightened his week ends, or the
hiking trip in the Sierras
planned for his next vacation,
or above all Faith. Faith the
fresh and lovely and perfect,
who would be his next month—

There was a smile on Simon’s

rugged face as he slept. But
he woke with a harsh scream
ringing in his head. He sprang
to his feet and looked out from
the stacks into the library.

The dead hulk that slumped
over the desk with the hilt pro-
truding from its back was un-
believable, but even more in-
credible was the other spectacle.
There was a man. His back was
toward Simon, but he seemed
faintly familiar. He stood close
to a complicated piece of gadg-
etry. There was the click of a
switch.

Then there was nothing.

Nothing in the room at all
but Simon Ash and an infinity
of books. And their dead
owner.

Ash ran to the desk. He tried
to lift Stanley Harrison, tried
to draw out the knife, then real-
ized how hopeless was any at-
tempt to revive life in that body.
He reached for the phone, then
stopped as he heard the loud
knocking on the door.

Over the raps came the but-
ler’s voice. “Mr. Harrison I Are
you all right, sir?” A pause,
more knocking, and then, “Mr.
Harrison! Let me in, sir! Are
you all right?”

Simon raced to the door. It
was locked, and he wasted almost
a minute groping for the key
at his feet, while the butler’s
entreaties became more urgent.
At last Simon opened the door.

Bracket stared at him — stared
at his sleep-red eyes, his blood-
red hands, and beyond him at
what sat at the desk. “Mr. Ash,
sir,” the butler gasped. “What
have you done?”

Faith Preston was home, of
course. No such essential ele-
ment of Mr. Partridge’s plan
could have been left to chance.
She worked best in the late aft-
ernoons, she said, when she was
getting hungry for dinner; and
she was working hard this week
on some entries for a national
contest in soap carving.

The late-afternoon sun was
bright in her room, which you

ELSEWHEN

117

might call her studio i£ you
were politely disposed, her gar-
ret if you were not. It picked
out the few perfect touches of
color in the scanty furnishings
and converted them into bright
aureoles surrounding the perfect
form of Faith.

The radio was playing softly.
She worked best to music, and
that, too, was an integral por-
tion of Mr. Partridge’s plan.

Six minutes of unmemorable
small talk — What are you
working on? How lovely! And
what have you been doing
lately? Pottering around as
usual. And the plans for the
wedding? — and then Mr. Par-
tridge held up a pleading hand
for silence.

“When you hear the tone,”
the radio announced, “the time
will be exactly five seconds be-
fore five o’clock.”

“I forgot to wind my watch,”
Mr. Partridge observed casually.
“I’ve been wondering all day
exactly what time it was.” He
set his perfectly accurate watch.

He took a long breath. And

now at last he knew that he was
a new man. He was at last the
Great Harrison Partridge. The
last detail of his perfect plan
had been checked off. His labors
were over. In another four
minutes Cousin Stanley would
be dead. In another month or
so Great-uncle Max would fol-
low, more naturally. Then
wealth and the new machine
and power and glory and —

Mr. Partridge looked about the
sun-bright garret as though he
were a newborn infant with a
miraculous power of vision and
recognition. He was newborn.
Not only had he made the great-
est discovery of his generation;
he had also committed its per-
fect crime. Nothing was impos-
sible to this newborn Harrison
Partridge.

“What’s the matter?” Faith
asked. “You look funny. Could
I make you some tea?”

“No. Nothing. I’m all right.”
He walked around behind, her
and looked over her shoulder at
the graceful nude emerging from
her imprisonment in a cake of

soap. “Exquisite, my dear,” he
observed. “Exquisite.”

“I’m glad you like it. I’m
never happy with female nudes;
I don’t think women sculptors
ever are. But I wanted to try
it.”

Mr. Partridge ran a dry hot
finger along the front of the
soapen nymph. “A delightful
texture,” he remarked. “Almost
as delightful as^ — ” His tongue
left the speech unfinished, but
his hand rounded out the
thought along Faith’s cool neck
and cheek.

“Why, Mr. Partridge!” She
laughed.

The laugh was too much. One
does not laugh at the Great Har-
rison Partridge, time traveler
and perfect murderer. There
was nothing in his plan that
called for what followed. But
something outside of any plans
brought him to his knees, forced
his arms around Faith’s lithe
body, pressed tumultuous words
of incoherent ardor from his un-
wonted lips.

He saw fear growing in her

118

ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION

eyes. He saw her hand dart out
in instinctive defense and he
wrested the knife from it. Then
bis own eyes glinted as he
looked at the knife. It was lit-
tle, ridiculously little. You
could never plunge it through a
man's back. But it was sharp
— a throat, the artery of a
wrist—

His muscles had relaxed for
an instant. In that moment of
nonvigilance. Faith had wrested
herself free. She did not look
backward. He heard the clatter
of her steps down the stairs, and
for a fraction of .time the Great
Harrison Partridge vanished and
Mr. Partridge knew only fear.
If he had aroused her hatred, if
she should not swear to his
alibi —

The fear was soon over. He
knew that no motives of enmity
could cause Faith to swear to
anything but the truth. She was
honest. And the enmity itself
would vanish when she realized
what manner of man had chosen
her for his own.

It was not the butler who
opened the door to Faith. It
was a uniformed policeman, who
said, “Whaddaya want here?”

“I’ve got to see Simon . . .
Mr. Ash,” she blurted out.

The officer’s expression
changed. “C’mon,” and he beck-
oned her down the long hall.

Faith followed him, not per-
haps so confused as she might or-
dinarily have been by such a
reception. If the mild and re-
pressed Mr. Partridge could
suddenly change into a ravening
wolf, an 5 Tthing was possible.
The respectable Mr. Harrison
might quite possibly be in some
trouble with the police. But she
had to see Simon, She needed
reassuring, comforting —

The tall young man in plain
clothes said, “My name is Jack-
son. Won’t you sit down?
Cigarette?” She waved the pack •
away nervously. “Hinkle says
you wanted to speak to Mr.
Ash?”

“Yes. I—”

“Are you Miss Preston? His
fiancee?”

“Yes.” Her eyes widened.
“How did you — Oh, has some-
thing happened to Simon?”

The young officer looked un-
happy. “I’m afraid something
has. Though he’s perfectly safe
at the moment. You see, he—
Damn it all, I never have been
able to break such news grace-
fully.”

The uniformed officer broke
in. “They took him down to
headquarters, miss. You see, it
looks like he bumped off his
boss.”

Faith did not quite faint, but
the world was uncertain for a
few minutes. She hardly heard
Lieutenant Jackson’s explana-
tions or the message of comfort
that Simon had left for her. She
simply held very tight to her
chair until the ordinary outlines
of things came back and she
could swallow again.

“Simon is innocent,” she said
firmly,

“I hope he is.” Jackson
sounded sincere. “I’ve never en-
joyed pinning a murder on as
decent-seeming a fellow as your
fiance. But the case, I’m afraid,
is too clear. If he is innocent,
he’ll have to tell us a more plau-
sible story than his first one.
Murderers that turn a switch and
vanish into thin air are not
highly regarded by most juries.”

Faith rose. The world was
firm again, and one fact was
clear. “Simon is innocent,” she
repeated. “And I’m going to
prove that. Will you please tell
me where I can get a detec-
tive?”

The uniformed officer laughed.
Jackson started to, but hesitated.
The threatened guffaw turned
into a not unsympathetic smile.
“Of course, Miss Preston, the
city’s paying my salary under
the impression that I'm one. But
I see what you mean: You want
a freer investigator, who won’t
be hampered by such considera-
tions as the official viewpoint, or
even the facts of the case. Well,
it’s your privilege.”

“Thank you. And how do I
go about finding one?”

“Acting as an employment
agency’s a little out of my line.
But rather than see you tie up
with some shyster sbamus, I'll
make a recommendation, a man
I’ve worked with, or against, on
a half dozen cases. And I think
this set-up is just impossible
enough to appeal to him. He
likes lost causes.”

“Lost?” It is a dismal word.

“And in fairness 1 should add
they aren’t always lost after he
tackles them. The name’s
O’Breen — Fergus O’Breen.”

Mr. Partridge dined out that
night. He could not face the
harshness of Agatha’s tongue.
Later he could dispose of her
comfortably; in the meanwhile,
he would avoid her as much as
possible. After dinner he made
a round of the bars on the Strip
and played the pleasant game of
“If only they knew who was
sitting beside them.” He felt
like Harun-al-Rashid, and liked
the glow of the feeling.

On his way home he bought
the next morning’s Times at an
intersection and pulled over to
the curb to examine it. He had
expected sensational headlines
on the mysterious murder which
had the police completely baf-
fled. Instead he read:

SECRETARY SLAYS
EMPLOYER

After a moment of shock the
Great Harrison Partridge was
himself again. He had not in-
tended this. He would not will-
ingly cause unnecessary pain to
anyone. But lesser individuals
who obstruct the plans of the
great must take their medicine.
The weakling notion that had
crossed his mind of confessing
to save this innocent young man
— that was dangerous nonsense
that must be eradicated from his
thoughts.

That another should pay for
your murder makes the perfect
crime even more perfect. And

ELSEWHEN

119

if the State chose to dispose of
Simon Ash in the lethal-gas
chamber — why, it was kind of
the State to aid in the solution
of the Faith problem.

Mr. Partridge drove home, con-
tented. He could spend the
night on the cot in his workshop
and thus see that much the less
of Agatha. He clicked on the
workshop light and froze.

There was a man standing by
the time machine. The original
large machine. Mr. Partridge’s
feeling of superhuman self-
conhdence was enormous but
easily undermined, like a vast
balloon that needs only the
smallest pin prick to shatter it.
For a moment he envisioned a
scientific master mind of the po-
lice who had deduced his
method, tracked him here, and
discovered his invention.

Then the figure turned.

Mr. Partridge’s terror was
only slightly lessened. For the
figure was that of Mr. Partridge.
There was a nightmare instant
when he thought of Doppel-
ganger, of Poe’s William Wil-
son, of dissociated personalities,
of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde.
Then this other Mr. Partridge
cried aloud and hurried from the
room, and the entering one col-
lapsed.

A trough must follow a crest.
And now blackness was the in-
exorable aftermath of Mr. Par-
tridge’s elation. His successful
murder, his ardor with Faith,
his evening as Harun-al-Rashid,
all vanished, to leave him an ab-
ject crawling thing faced with
the double fear of madness and
detection. He heard horrible
noises in the room, and realized
only after minutes that they were
his own sobs.

Finally he pulled himself to
his feet. He bathed his face in
cold water from the sink, but
still terror gnawed at him. Only
one thing could reassure him.
Only one thing could still con-
vince him that he was the Great
Harrison Partridge. And that
was his noble machine. He
touched it, carassed it as one

might a fine and dearly loved
horse.

Mr. Partridge was nervous,
and he had been drinking more
than his frugal customs allowed.
His hand brushed the switch.
He looked up and saw himself
entering the door. He cried
aloud and hurried from the room.

In the cool night air he slowly
understood. He had acciden-
tally sent himself back to the
time he entered the room, so that
upon entering he had seen him-
self. There was nothing more
to it that that. But he made a
careful mental note : Always
take care, when using the ma-
chine, to avoid returning to a
time-and-place where you al-
ready are. Never meet yourself.
The dangers of psychological
shock are too great.

Mr. Partridge felt better now.
He had frightened himself, had
he? Well, he would not be the
last to tremble in fear of the
Great Harrison Partridge.

Fergus O’Breen, the detective
recommended — if you could call
it that — by the police lieutenant,
had his office in a ramshackle old
building at Second and Spring.
There were two, she imagined
they were clients, in the waiting
room ahead of Faith. One
looked like the most sodden type
of Skid Row loafer, and the ell-
gant disarray of the other could
mean nothing but the lower
reaches of the upper layers of
Hollywood.

The detective, when Faith fi-
nally saw him, inclined in cos-
tume toward the latter, but he
wore sports clothes as though
they were pleasantly comfort-
able, rather than as the badge of
a caste. He was a thin young
man, with sharpish features and
very red hair. What you noticed
most were his eyes — intensely
green and alive with a restless
curiosity. They made you feel
that his work would never end
until that curiosity had been
satisfied.

He listened in silence to
Faith’s story, not moving save

to make an occasional note. He
was attentive and curious, but
Faith’s spirits sank as she saw
the curiosity in the green eyes
deaden to hopelessness. When
she was through, he rose, lit a
cigarette, and began pacing
about the narrow inner office.

“I think better this way,” he
apologized. “I hope you don’t
mind. But what have I got to
think about? Look: This is
what you’ve told me. Your
young man, this Simon Ash, was
alone in the library with his em-
ployer. The butler heard a
scream. Knocked on the door,
tried to get in, no go. Ash un-
locks the door from the inside.
Police search later shows all
other doors and windows like-
wise locked on the inside. And
Ash’s prints are on the murder
knife. My dear Miss Preston,
all that’s better than a signed
confession for any jury.”

“But Simon is innocent,”
Faith insisted. “I know him,
Mr. O’Breen. It isn’t possible
that he could have done a thing
like that.”

“I understand how you feel.
But what have we got to go on
besides your feelings? I’m not
saying they’re wrong; I’m try-
ing to show you how the police
and the court would look at it.”

“But there wasn’t any reason
for Simon to kill Mr. Harrison.
He had a good job. He liked it.
We were going to get married.
Now he hasn’t any job or ... or
anything.”

“I know.” The detective con-
tinued to pace. “That’s the one
point you’ve got — absence of mo-
tive. But they’ve convicted
without motive before this. And
rightly enough. Murderers don’t
always think like the rational
man. Anything can be a motive.
The most outrageous and fas-
cinating French murder since
Landru was committed because
the electric toaster didn’t work
right that morning, But let’s
look at motives. Mr. Harrison
was a wealthy man ; where does
all that money go?”

“Simon helped draft his will.

120

ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION

It all goes to libraries and
foundations and things. A little
to the servants, of course — ”

“A little can turn the trick.
But no near relatives?”

‘‘His father’s still alive. He’s
terribly old. But he’s so rich
himself that it’d be silly to leave
him anything.”

Fergus snapped his fingers.
“Max Harrison! Of course.
The superannuated robber-baron,
to put it politely, who’s been
due to die any time these past
ten years. And leave a mere
handful of millions. There’s a
motive for you.”

“How so?”

“The murderer could profit
from Stanley Harrison’s death,
not directly if all his money goes
to foundations, but indirectly
from his father. Combination
of two classic motives — profit
and elimination. Who’s next in
line for old man Harrison’s for-
tune?”

“I’m not sure. But I do know
two people who are sort of sec-
ond cousins or something. I
think they’re the only living
relatives. Agatha and Harrison
Partridge.” Her eyes clouded
a little as she mentioned Mr.
Partridge and remembered his
strange behavior yesterday.

Fergus' eyes were brighten-
ing again. “At least it’s a lead.
Simon Ash had no motive and
one Harrison Partridge had a
honey. Which proves nothing,
but gives you some place to
start.”

“Only — ” Faith protested.

“Only Mr. Partridge couldn’t
possibly have done it either.”

Fergus stopped pacing. “Look,
madam. I am willing to grant
the unassailable innocence of one
suspect on a client’s word.
Otherwise I’d never get clients.
But if every individual who
comes up is going to turn out
to be someone in whose pureness
of soul you have implicit faith
and-—”

“It isn’t that. Not just that.
Of course I can’t imagine Mr.
Partridge doing a thing like
that—**

“You never can tell,” said Fer-
gus a little grimly. “Some of my
best friends have been murder-
ers.”

“But the murder was just after
five o’clock, the butler says. And
Mr. Partridge was with me then,
and I live way across town from
Mr. Harrison’s.”

“You're sure of the time?”

“We heard the five-o’clock
radio signal and he set his
watch.” Her voice was troubled
and she tried not to remember
the awful minutes afterward.

“Did he make a point of it?”

“Well . . . we were talking
and he stopped and held up his
hand and we listened to the
bong.”

“Hm-m-m.” This statement
seemed to strike the detective
especially. “Well, there’s still
the sister. And anyway, the
Partridges give me a point of
departure, which is what I
needed.”

Faith looked at him hope-
fully. “Then you’ll take the
case?”

“I’ll take it. God knows why.
I don’t want to raise your hopes,
because if ever I saw an un-
promising set-up it’s this. But
I’ll take it. I think it’s because
I can’t resist the pleasure of hav-
ing a detective lieutenant shove
a case into my lap.”

“Bracket, was it usual for that
door to be locked when Mr. Har-
rison was in the library?”

The butler’s manner was im-
perfect; he could not decide
whether a hired detective was a
gentleman or a servant. “No.”
he said, politely enough but
without a “sir.” “No, it was most
unusual.”

“Did you notice if it was
locked earlier?”

“It was not. I showed a visi-
tor in shortly before the . . .
before this dreadful thing hap-
pened.”

“A visitor?” Fergus’ eyes
glinted. He began to have vi-
sions of all the elaborate possi-
bilities of locking doors from the
outside so that they seem locked

on the inside. “And when was
this?”

“Just on five o’clock, I
thought. But the gentleman
called here today to offer his
sympathy, and he remarked,
when I mentioned the subject,
that he believed it to have been
earlier.”

“And who was this gentle-
man?”

“Mr. Harrison Partridge.”
Hell, thought Fergus. There
goes another possibility. It
must have been much earlier if
he was at Faith Preston’s by five.
And you can’t tamper with radio
time signals as you might with
a clock. However— “Notice
anything odd about Mr. Par-
tridge? Anything in his man-
ner?”

“Yesterday? No, I did not.
He was carrying some curious
contraption — I hardly noticed
what. I imagine it was some re-
cent invention of his which he
wished to show to Mr. Harri-
son.”

“He's an inventor, this Par-
tridge? But you said yester-
day. Anything odd about him
today?”

“I don’t know. It’s difficult to
describe. But there was some-
thing about him as though he
had changed — grown, perhaps.”
“Grown up?”

“No. Just grown.”

“Now, Mr. Ash, this man you
claim you saw—”

“Claim! Damn it, O’Breen,
don’t you believe me either?”
“Easy does it. The main thing
for you is that Miss Preston be-
lieves you, and I’d say that’s a
lot. And I’m doing my damned-
est to substantiate her belief.
Now this man you saw, if that
makes you any happier in this
jail, did he remind you of any-
one? Was there any sugges-
tion—”

“I don’t know. It’s bothered
me. I didn’t get a good look, but
there was something familiar — ”
“You say he had some sort of
machine beside him?”

Simon Ash was suddenly ex-

ELSEWHEN

121

cited. “You’ve got it. That’s
it.”

“That’s what?”

“Who it was. Or who I
thought it was. Mr. Partridge.
He’s some sort of a cousin of Mr.
Harrison’s. Screwball inventor.”

“Miss Preston, I’ll have to ask
you more questions. Too many
signposts keep pointing one
way, and even if that way’s a
blind alley I’ve got to go up it.
When Mr. Partridge called on
you yesterday afternoon, what
did he do to you?”

“Do to me?” Faith’s voice
wavered. “What on earth do
you mean?”

“It was obvious from your
manner earlier that there was
something about that scene you
wanted to forget. I’m afraid
it’ll have to be told. I want to
know everything I can about
Mr. Partridge, and particularly
Mr. Partridge yesterday.”

“He — Oh, no, I can’t. Must
I tell you, Mr. O’Breen?”

“Simon Ash says the jail is not
bad after what he’s heard of
jails, but still—”

“All right. I’ll tell you. But
it was strange. I ... I suppose
I’ve known for a long time that
Mr. Partridge was — well, you
might say in love with me. But
he’s so much older than I am
and he’s very quiet and never
said anything about it and — ^well,
there it was, and I never gave
it much thought one way or an-
other. But yesterday — It was
as though ... as though he were
possessed. All at once it seemed
to burst out and there he was
making love to me. Frightfully,
horribly. I couldn’t stand it. I
ran away.” Her slim body shud-
dered now with the memory.
“That’s all there was to it. But
it was terrible.”

“You pitched me a honey this
time, Andy.”

Lieutenant Jackson grinned.
“Thought you’d appreciate it,
Fergus,”

“But look: What have you got
against Ash but the physical

set-up of a locked room? The
oldest cliche in murderous fic-
tion, and not unheard of in fact.
'Locked rooms’ can be unlocked.
Remember the Carruthers case?”

“Show me how to unlocked
this one and your Mr, Ash is a
free man.”

“Set that aside for the mo-
ment. But look at my suspect,
whom we will call, for the sake
of novelty, X. X is a mild-
mannered, inoffensive man who
stands to gain several million by
Harrison’s death. He shows up
at the library just before the
murder. He’s a crackpot inven-
tor, and he has one of his gadgets
with him. He shows an alibi-
conscious awareness of time. He
tries to get the butler to think
he called earlier. He calls a
witness’ attention ostentatiously
to a radio time signal. And most
important of all, psychologically,
he changes. He stops being
mild-mannered and inoffensive.
He goes on the make for a girl
with physical violence. The but-
ler describes him as a different
man; he’s grown.”

Jackson nodded. “It’s a good
case. And the inventor’s
gadget, I suppose, explains the
locked room?”

“Probably, when we learn
what it was. You’ve got a good
mechanical mind, Andy. That’s
right up your alley.”

Jackson drew a note pad to-
ward him. “Your X sounds
worth questioning, to say the
least. But this reticence isn’t
like you, Fergus. Why all this
innuendo? Why aren’t you tell-
ing me to get out of here and
arrest him?”

Fergus was not quite his cocky
self. “Because you see, that
alibi I mentioned — well, it’s
good. I can’t crack it. It’s per-
fect.”

Lieutenant Jackson shoved the
pad away. “Run away and play,”
he said wearily.

“It couldn’t be phony at the
other end?” Fergus urged.
“Some gadget planted to produce
those screams at five o’clock to

give a fake time for the mur-
der?”

Jackson shook his head. “Har-
rison finished tea around four
thirty. Stomach analysis shows
the food had been digested just
about a half-hour. No, he died
at five o’clock, all right.”

“X’s alibi’s perfect, then,” Fer-
gus repeated. “Unless . . . un-
less — ” His green eyes blinked
with amazed realization. “Oh,
my dear God — ” he said softly.

“Unless what?” Jackson de-
manded. There was no answer.
It was the first time in history
that the lieutenant had ever seen
The O’Breen speechless.

Mr. Partridge was finding life
pleasant to lead. Of course this
was only a transitional stage.
At present he was merely the-—
what was the transitional stage
between cocoon and fully devel-
oped insect? Larva? Imago?
Pupa? Outside of his own
electro-inventive field. Mr. Par-
tridge was not a well-informed
man. That must be remedied.
But let the metaphor go. Say
simply that he was now in the
transition between the meek
worm that had been Mr, Par-
tridge and the Great Harrison
Partridge who would emerge tri-
umphant when Great-uncle Max
died and Faith forgot that poor
foolish doomed young man.

Even Agatha he could tolerate
more easily in this pleasant
state, although he had nonethe-
less established permanent liv-
ing quarters in his workroom.
She had felt her own pleasure
at the prospect of being an heir-
ess, but had expressed it most
properly by buying sumptuous
mourning for Cousin Stanley —
the most expensive clothes that
she had bought in the past dec-
ade. And her hard edges were
possibly softening a little — or
was that the pleasing haze, al-
most like that of drunkenness,
which now tended to soften all
hard edges for Mr. Partridge’s
delighted eyes?

Life possessed pleasures that
he had never dreamed of before.

122

The pleasure, for instance, of
his visit to the dead man’s house
to pay his respects, and to make
sure that the butler’s memory of
time was not too accurately
fixed. Risky, you say? Incur-
ring the danger that one might
thereby only fix it all the more
accurately? For a lesser man.
perhaps yes; but for the newly
nascent Great Harrison Par-
tridge a joyous exercise of pure
skill.

It was in the midst of some
such reverie as this that Mr. Par-
tridge, lolling idly in his work-
shop with an unaccustomed tray
of whiskey, ice and siphon be-
side him, casually overheard the
radio announce the result of the
fourth race at Hialeah and noted
abstractedly that a horse named
Karabali had paid forty-eight
dollars and sixty cents on a two*
dollar ticket. He had almost
forgotten the only half-regis-
tered fact when the phone rang.

He answered, and a grudging
voice said, “You can sure pick
’em. That’s damned near five
grand you made on Karabali.’’

Mr. Partridge fumbled with
vocal noises.

The voice went on. “What
shall I do with it? Want to pick
it up tonight or— ’’

Mr. Partridge had been mak-
ing incredibly rapid mental cal-
culations. “Leave it in my ac-
count for the moment,” he said
firmly. “Oh, and— I’m afraid I’ve
mislaid your telephone number.”

“Trinity 2897. Got any more
hunches now?”

“Not at the moment. I’ll let
you know.”

Mr. Partridge replaced the re-
ceiver and poured himself a stiff
drink. When he had downed it,
he went to the machine and
traveled two hours back. He re-
turned to the telephone, dialed
TR 2897, and said, “I wish to
place a bet on the fourth race
at Hialeah.”

The same voice said. “And
who’re you?”

“Partridge. Harrison Par-
tridge.”

“Look, brother. I don’t take

ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION

bets by phone unless I see some
cash first, see?”

Mr. Partridge hastily recalcu-
lated. As a result the next half
hour was as packed with action
as the final moments of his great
plan. He learned about accounts,
he ascertained the bookmaker’s
address, he hurried to his bank
and drew out an impressive five
hundred dollars which he could
ill spare, and he opened his ac-
count and placed a two-hundred-
dollar bet which excited nothing
but a badly concealed derision.

Then he took a long walk and
mused over the problem. He re-
called happening on a story once
in some magazine which proved
that you could not use knowl-
edge from the future of the out-
come of races to make your
fortune, because by interfering
with your bet you would change
the odds and alter the future.
But he was not plucking from
the future; he was going back
into the past. The odds he had
heard were already affected by
what he had done. From his
subjective point of view, he
learned the result of his actions
before he performed them. But
in the objective physical tem-
porospatial world, he performed
those actions quite normally and
correctly before their results.

It was perfect — for the time
being. It could not, of course,
be claimed as one of the genera]
commercial advantages of the
time machine. Once the Par-
tridge principle became common
knowledge, all gambling would
inevitably collapse. But for this
transitional stage it was ideal.
Now, while he was waiting for
Great-uncle Max to die and fi-
nance his great researches, Mr.
Partridge could pass his time
waiting for the telephone to in-
form him of the .brilliant coup
he had made. He could quietly
amass an enormous amount of
money and —

Mr. Partridge stopped dead on
the sidewalk and a strolling cou-
ple ran headlong into him. He
scarcely noticed the collision.
He had had a dreadful thought.

The sole acknowledged motive
for his murder of Cousin Stan-
ley had been to secure money for
his researches. Now he learned
that his machine, even in its
present imperfect form, could
provide him with untold money.

He had never needed to mur-
der at all.

“My dearest Maureen,” Fergus
announced at the breakfast table,
“I have discovered the world’s
first successful time machine."

His sister showed no signs of
being impressed. “Have some
more tomato juice,” she sug-
gested. “Want some tabasco in
it? I didn’t know that the delu-
sions could survive into the
hangover.”

“But Macushla,” Fergus pro-
tested, “you’ve just listened to an
announcement that no woman on
earth has ever heard before,”

“Fergus O’Breen, Mad Scien-
tist.” Maureen shook her head.
“It isn’t a role I’d cast you for.
Sorry.

“If you’d listen before you
crack wise, I said ‘discovered.’
Not ‘invented,’ It’s the damn-
edest thing that’s ever happened
to me in business. It hit me in
a flash while I was talking to
Andy. It’s the perfect and only
possible solution to a case. And
who will ever believe me? Do
you wonder that I went out and
saturated myself last night?”

Maureen frowned. “You mean
this? Honest and truly?”

“Black and bluely, my sweet-
ing, and all the rest of the child-
ish rigmarole. It’s the McCoy.
Listen.” And he briefly outlined
the case. “Now what sticks out
like a sore thumb is this: Harri-
son Partridge establishing an
alibi. The radio time signal, the
talk with the butler — I’ll even
lay odds that the murderer him-
self gave those screams so there’d
be no question as to time of
death. Then you rub up against
the fact that the alibi, like the
horrendous dream of the young
girl from Peru, is perfectly true.

“But what does an alibi mean?
It’s my own nomination for the

most misused word in the lan-
guage. It’s come to mean a dis-
proof, an excuse. But strictly it
means nothing, but elsewhere.
You know the classic gag: ‘I
wasn’t there, this isn’t the
woman, and, anyway, she gave
in.’ Well, of those three redun-
dant excuses, only the first is
an alibi, an elsewhere statement.
Now Partridge's claim of being
elsewhere is true enough. He
hasn’t been playing with space,
like the usual alibi builder. And
even if we could remove him
from elsewhere and put him
literally on the spot, he could
say: ‘I couldn’t have left the

room after the murder; the doors
were all locked on the inside.’
Sure he couldn’t — not at that
time. And his excuse is not an
elsewhere, but an elsewhen."

Maureen refilled his coffee cup
and her own. “Hush up a minute
and let me think it over.” At
last she nodded slowly. “And
he’s an eccentric inventor and
when the butler saw him he was
carrying one of his gadgets.”

“Which he still had when
Simon Ash saw him vanish. He
committed the murder, locked
the doors, went back in time,
walked out through them in their
unlocked past, and went
off to hear the five-
o’clock radio bong at
Faith Preston’s.”

“But you can’t try to
sell the police on that.

Not even Andy. He
wouldn’t listen to — ”

“I know. Damn it, I
know. And meanwhile
that Ash, who seems a
hell of a good guy — our
kind of people, Maureen
— sits there with the
surest reserved booking
for the lethal-gas cham-
ber I’ve ever seen.”

“What are you going
to do?”

“I’m going to see Mr.
Harrison Partridge. And
I’m going to ask for an
encore.”

“Quite an establish-

ment you’ve got here,” Fergus
observed to the plump bald little
•inventor.

Mr. Partridge smiled courte-
ously. “I amuse myself with my
small experiments,” he admitted.

“I’m afraid I’m not much aware
of the wonders of modern
science. I’m looking forward to
the more spectacular marvels,
spaceships for instance, or time
machines. But that wasn’t what
I came to talk about. Miss Pres-
ton tells me you’re a friend of
hers. I’m sure you’re in sym-
pathy with this attempt of hers
to free young Ash.”

“Oh, naturally. Most natu-
rally. Anything that I can do
to be of assistance — ”

“It’s just the most routine sort
of question, but I’m groping for
a lead. Anything that might
point out a direction for me.
Now, aside from Ash and the
butler, you seem to have been
the last person to see Harrison
alive. Could you tell me any-
thing about him? How was he?”

“Perfectly normal, so far as I
could observe. We talked about
a new item which I had un-
earthed for his bibliography, and
he expressed some small dissatis-
faction with Ash’s cataloguing

of late. I believe they had had
words on the matter earlier.”
“Nothing wrong with Harri-
son? No ... no depression?”
“You’re thinking of suicide?
My dear young man, that hare
won’t start. I’m afraid. My cou-
sin was the last man on earth
to contemplate such an act.”
“Bracket says you had one of
your inventions with you?”

“Yes, a new, I thought, and
highly improved frame for
photostating rare books. My
cousin, however, pointed out that
the same improvements had re-
cently been made by an Austrian
emigre manufacturer. I aban-
doned the idea and reluctantly
took apart my model.”

“A shame. But I suppose
that’s part of the inventor’s life,
isn’t it?”

“All too true. Was there any-
thing else you wished to ask
me?”

“No. Nothing really.” There
was an awkward pause. The
smell of whiskey was in the air,
but Mr. Partridge proffered no
hospitality. “Funny the results
a murder will have, isn’t it? To
think how this frightful fact will
benefit cancer research.”

“Cancer research?” Mr. Par-

124

ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION

tridge wrinkled his brows. “I
did not know that that was
among Stanley’s beneficiaries.”

“Not your cousin’s, no. But
Miss Preston tells me that old
Max Harrison has decided that
since his only direct descendant
is dead, his fortune might as well
go to the world. He’s planning
to set up a medical foundation to
rival Rockefeller’s, and specializ-
ing in cancer. I know his lawyer
slightly; he mentioned he’s go-
ing out there tomorrow.”

“Indeed,” said Mr. Partridge
evenly.

Fergus paced. “If you can
think of anything, Mr. Partridge,
let me know. I’ve got to clear
Ash. I’m convinced he’s inno-
cent, but if he is, then this seems
like the perfect crime at last.
A magnificent piece of work, if
you can look at it like that.”
He looked around the room.
“Excellent small workshop
you’ve got here. You can im-
agine almost anything coming
out of it.”

“Even,” Mr. Partridge ven-
tured, “your spaceships and time
machines?”

“Hardly a spaceship,” said
Fergus.

Mr. Partridge smiled as the
young detective departed. He
had, he thought, carried off a
difficult interview in a masterly
fashion. How neatly he had
slipped in that creative bit about
Stanley’s dissatisfaction with
Ash! How brilliantly he had
improvised a plausible excuse
for the machine he was carrying!

Not that the young man could
have suspected anything. It was
patently the most routine visit.
It was almost a pity that this was
the case. How pleasant it would
be to fence with a detective —
master against master. To have
a Javert, a Porfir, a Maigret on
his trail and to admire the bril-
liance with, which the Great
Harrison Partridge should baf-
fle him.

Perhaps the perfect criminal
should be suspected, even known,
and yet unattainable —

The pleasure of this parrying
encounter confirmed him in the
belief that had grown in him
overnight. It is true that it was
a pity that Stanley Harrison had
died needlessly. Mr. Partridge’s
reasoning had slipped for once;
murder for profit had not been
an essential part of the plan.

And yet what great work had
ever been accomplished without
death? Does not the bell ring
the truer for the blood of the
hapless workman? Did not the
ancients wisely believe that
greatness must be founded upon
a sacrifice? Not self-sacrifice, in
the stupid Christian perversion
of that belief, but a true sacrifice
of another’s flesh and blood.

So Stanley Harrison was the
needful sacrifice from which
should arise the Great Harrison
Partridge. And were its effects
not already visible? Would he
be what he was today, would he
so much as have emerged from
the cocoon, purely by virtue of
his discovery?

No, it was his great and ir-
retrievable deed, the perfection
of his crime, that had molded
him. In blood is greatness.

That ridiculous young man,
prating of the perfection of the
crime and never dreaming that —

Mr. Partridge paused and re-
viewed the conversation. There
had twice been that curious in-
sistence upon time machines.
Then he had said — what was it?
— “the crime was a magnificent
piece of work,” and then, “you
can imagine almost anything
coming out of this workshop.”
And the surprising news of
Great-uncle Max's new will—

Mr. Partridge smiled happily.
He had been unpardonably dense.
Here was his Javert, his Porfir.
The young detective did indeed
suspect him. And the reference
to Max had been a temptation, a
trap. The detective could not
know how unnecessary that for-
tune had now become. He had
thought to lure him into giving
away his hand by an attempt at
another crime.

And yet, was any fortune ever

unnecessary? And a challenge
like that — so direct a challenge —
could one resist it?

Mr. Partridge found himself
considering all the difficulties.
Great-uncle Max would have to
be murdered today, if he planned
on seeing his lawyer tomorrow.
The sooner the better. Perhaps
his habitual after-lunch siesta
would be the best time. He was
always alone then, dozing m his
favorite corner of that large
estate in the hills.

Bother! A snag. No electric
plugs there. The portable model
was out. And yet — Yes, of
course. It could be done the
other way. With Stanley, he
had committed his crime, then
gone back and prepared his alibi.
But here he could just as well
establish the alibi, then go back
and commit the murder, sending
himself back by the large ma-
chine here with wider range.
No need for the locked-room ef-
fect. That was pleasing, but not
essential.

An alibi for one o’clock in the
afternoon. He did not care to
use Faith again. He did not want
to see her in his larval stage.
He would let her suffer through
her woes for that poor devil
Ash, and then burst upon her in
his glory as the Great Harrison
Partridge. A perfectly reliable
alibi. He might obtain another
traffic ticket, though he had not
yet been forced to produce his
first one. Surely the police would
be as good as —

The police. But how perfect.
Ideal. To go to headquarters
and ask to see the detective work-
ing on the Harrison case. Tell
him, as a remembered after-
thought, about Cousin Stanley’s
supposed quarrel with Ash. Be
with him at the time Great-uncle
Max is to be murdered.

At twelve thirty Mr. Partridge
left his house for the central
police station.

There was now no practical
need for him to murder Maxwell
Harrison, He had, in fact, not
completely made up his mind to

ELSEWHEN

125

do 60. But he was taking the
first step in his plan.

Fergus could hear the old
man’s snores from his coign of
vigilance. Getting into Maxwell
Harrison’s hermitlike retreat had
been a simple job. The news-
papers had for years so thor-
oughly covered the old boy’s
peculiarities that you knew in
advance all you needed to know
— his daily habits, his loathing
for bodyguards, his favorite spot
for napping.

His lack of precautions had up
till now been justified. Servants
guarded whatever was of value
in the house ; and who would be
so wanton as to assault a man
nearing his century who carried
nothing of value on his person?
But now —

Fergus had sighed with more
than ordinary relief when he
reached the spot and found the
quarry safe. It would have been
possible, he supposed, for Mr.
Partridge to have gone back from
his interview with Fergus for
the crime. But the detective
had banked on the criminal’s dis-
position to repeat himself — com-
mit the crime, in this instance,
first, and then frame the e]se-
when.

The sun was warm and the
hills were peaceful. There was
a purling stream at the deep bot-
tom of the gully beside Fergus.
Old Maxwell Harrison did well
to sleep in such perfect solitude.

Fergus was on his third ciga-
rette before he heard a sound.
It was a very little sound, the
turning of a pebble, perhaps; but
here in this loneliness any sound
that was not a snore or a stream
seemed infinitely loud.

Fergus flipped his cigarette
into the depths of the gully and
moved, as noiselessly as was pos-
sible, toward the sound, screen-
ing himself behind straggly
bushes.

The sight, even though ex-
pected, was nonetheless startling
in this quiet retreat: a plump
bald man of middle age advanc-
ing on tiptoe with a long knife

gleaming in his upraised hand.

Fergus flung himself forward.
His left hand caught the knife-
brandishing wrist and his right
pinioned Mr. Partridge’s other
arm behind him. The face of
Mr, Partridge, that had been so
bland a mask of serene exaltation
as he advanced to his prey,
twisted itself into something be-
tween rage and terror.

His body twisted itself, too. It
was an instinctive, untrained
movement, but timed so nicely
by accident that it tore his knife
hand free from Fergus’ grip and
allowed it to plunge downward.

The twist of Fergus’ body was
deft and conscious, but it was
not quite enough to avoid a sting-
ing flesh wound in the shoulder.
He felt warm blood trickling
down his back. Involuntarily he
released his grip on Mr. Par-
tridge’s other arm.

Mr. Partridge hesitated for a
moment, as though uncertain
whether his knife should taste of
Great-uncle Max or first dispose
of Fergus. The hesitation was
understandable, but fatal. Fer-
gus sprang forward in a flying
tackle aimed at Mr. Partridge’s
knees. Mr. Partridge lifted his
foot to kick that advancing
green-eyed face. He swung and
felt his balance going. Then the
detective’s shoulder struck him.
He was toppling, falling over
backward, falling, falling —

The old man was still snoring
when Fergus returned from his
climb down the gully. There
was no doubt that Harrison Par-
tridge was dead. No living head
could loll so limply on its neck.

And Fergus had killed him.
Call it an accident, call it self-
defense, call it what you will.
Fergus had brought him to a
trap, and in that trap he had
died.

The brand of Cain may be
worn in varying manners. To
Mr. Partridge it had assumed the
guise of an inspiring panache,
a banner with a strange device.
But Fergus wore his brand with
a difference.

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126

ASTOUNDING SCIENCE-FICTION

The shock of guilt did not
bite too deeply into his con-
science. He had brought about
inadvertently and in person what
he had hoped to bring the State
to perform with all due cere-
mony. Human life, to be sure,
is sacred; but believe too
strongly in that precept, and
what becomes of capital punish-
ment or of the noble duties of
war?

He could not blame himself
morally, perhaps, for Mr. Par-
tridge’s death. But he could
blame himself for professional
failure in that death. He had
no more proof than before to
free Simon Ash, and he had bur-
dened himself with a killing. A
man killed at your hand in a
trap of your devising — what
more sure reason could deprive
you of your license as a detec-
tive? Even supposing, hope-
fully, that you escaped a murder
rap.

For murder can spread in con-
centric circles, and Fergus
O’Breen, who had set out to
trap a murderer, now found him-
self being one.

Fergus hesitated in front of
Mr. Partridge’s workshop. It
was his last chance. There might
be evidence here — the machine
itself or some document that
could prove his theory even to
the skeptical eye of Detective
Lieutenant A. Jackson. House-
breaking would be a small of-
fense to add to his record now.
The window on the left, he
thought —

“Hi!” said Lieutenant Jackson
cheerfully. “You on his trail,
too?”

Fergus tried to seem his usual
jaunty self. “Hi, Andy. So
you’ve finally got around to sus-
pecting Partridge?”

“Is he your mysterious X? I
thought he might be.”

“And that’s what brings you
out here?”

“No. He roused my profes-
sional suspicions all by himself.
Came into the office an hour ago
with the damnedest cock-and-

bull story about some vital evi-
dence he'd forgotten. Stanley
Harrison’s last words, it seems,
were about a quarrel with Simon
Ash. It didn’t ring good —
seemed like a deliberate effort
to strengthen the case against
Ash. As soon as I could get
free, I decided to come out and
have a further chat with the
lad.”

“I doubt if he’s home,” said
Fergus.

“We can try.” Jackson rapped
on the door of the workshop.
It was opened by Mr. Partridge.

Mr. Partridge held in one hand
the remains of a large open-face
ham sandwich. When he had
opened the door, he picked up
with the other hand the remains
of a large whiskey and soda. He
needed sustenance before this
bright new adventure, this
greater-than-perfect crime, be-
cause it arose from no needful
compulsion and knew no normal
motive.

Fresh light gleamed in his
eyes as he saw the two men
standing there. Hisjavert! Two
Javerts ! The unofficial detective
who had so brilliantly challenged
him, and the official one who was
to provide his alibi. Chance was
happy to offer him this further
opportunity for vivid daring.

He hardly heeded the opening
words of the official detective
nor the look of dazed bewilder-
ment on the face of the other.
He opened his lips and the Great
Harrison Partridge, shedding the
last vestigial vestments of the
cocoon, spoke:

“You may know the truth for
what good it will do you. The
life of the man Ash means noth-
ing to me. I can triumph over
him even though he live. I killed
Stanley Harrison. Take that
statement and do with it what
you can. I know that an un-
corroborated confession is use-
less to you. If you can prove it,
you may have me. And I shall
soon commit another sacrifice,
and you are powerless to stop
me. Because, you see, you are

already too late.” He laughed
softly.

Mr. Partridge closed the door
and locked it. He finished the
sandwich and the whiskey,
hardly noticing the poundings
on the door. He picked up the
knife and went to his machine.
His face was a bland mask of
serene exaltation.

Fergus for the second time was
speechless. But Lieutenant
Jackson had hurled himself
against the door, a second too
late. It was a matter of minutes
before he and a finally aroused
Fergus had broken it down.

“He’s gone,” Jackson stated
puzzledly. “There must be a
trick exit somewhere.”

“ ‘Locked room,’ ” Fergus mur-
mured. His shoulder ached, and
the charge against the door had
set it bleeding again.

“What’s that?”

“Nothing. Look, Andy. When
do you go off duty?”

“Strictly speaking, I’m off
now. I was making this check-
up on my own time.”

“Then let us, in the name of
seventeen assorted demigods of
drunkenness, go drown our con-
fusions.”

Fergus was still asleep when
Lieutenant Jackson’s phone call
came the next morning. His
sister woke him, and watched
him come into acute and painful
wakefulness as he listened, nod-
ding and muttering, “Yes,” or,
“I’ll be—”

Maureen waited till he had
hung up, groped about, and
found and lighted a cigarette.
Then she said, “Well?”

“Remember that Harrison case
I was telling you about yester-
day?”

“The time-machine stuff? Yes."

“My murderer, Mr. Partridge
— they found him in a gully out
on his great-uncle’s estate. Ap-
parently slipped and killed him-
self while attempting his second
murder— that’s the way Andy
sees it. Had a knife with him.
So, in view of that and a sort of
confession he made yesterday,

ELSEWHEN

127

Andy’s turning Simon Ash loose.
He still doesn’t see how Par-
tridge worked the first murder,
but he doesn’t have to bring it
into court now.”

“Well? What’s the matter?
Isn’t that fine?”

“Matter? Look, Maureen ma-
cushla. I killed Partridge. I
didn’t mean to, and maybe you
could call it justifiable; but I
did. I killed him at one o’clock
yesterday afternoon. Andy and
I saw him at two; he was then
eating a ham sandwich and
drinking whiskey. The stomach
analysis proves that he died half
an hour after that meal, when I
was with Andy starting out on a

bender of bewilderment. So you
see?”

“You mean he went back after-
ward to kill his uncle and then
you . . . you saw him after you’d
killed him only before he went
back to be killed? Oh, how aw-
ful.”

“Not just that, my sweeting.
This is the humor of it: The

time alibi, the elsewhen that
gave the perfect cover up for
Partridge’s murder — it gives ex-
actly the same ideal alibi to his
own murderer.”

Maureen started to speak and
stopped. “Oh!” she gasped.

“What?”

“The time machine. It must
THE END.

still be there — somewhere —

mustn’t it? Shouldn’t you — ”

Fergus laughed, and not at
comedy. “That’s the payoff of
perfection on this opus. I gather
Partridge and his sister didn’t
love each other too dearly. You
know what her first reaction was
to the news of his death? After
one official tear and one official
sob, she went and smashed the
hell out of his workshop.”

On a workshop fioor lay
twisted, shattered coils and bus-
bars. In the morgue lay a plump
bald body with a broken neck.
These remained of the Great
Harrison Partridge.

BOOK REVIEW

ROCKET TO THE MORGUE,
by H. H. Holmes. Duell,
Sloan & Pearce, $2.00.

This is not a science-fiction
yarn; it’s straightforward who-
dunnit, by a whodunnit regular,
author of several such. As a
mystery novel, it doesn’t get a
review in Astounding’s pages.
But — H. H. Holmes is writing
for us now, a result of having
joined the Manana Literary So-
ciety, the group of fantasy and
science-fiction writers that cen-
tered around Bob Heinlein’s
home in Hollywood before Pearl
Harbor. And the story, straight
murder mystery that it is — is
laid in and about the Manana
Literary Society. Half a dozen
of your favorite authors and
mine are prime characters in the
book. Somewhat disguised,
somewhat blended and somewhat
distorted by the inexorable ne-
cessities of a mystery yarn ;
you've got* to have a couple of
villains, and several suspicious
characters. The only science-
fictionry in the story is the mur-
der method— a rocket does help
the victim on his way to the
morgue. But that’s as it should
be; if the author were free to
pull any imaginative gadget out
of his hat, neither the detective

nor the reader would stand a
chance of solving it.

This yarn’s beauty, from the
science-fictionist’s viewpoint, is
in the characters involved.
Knowing the group, I can state
that the Manana Literary Society
scenes have the air of being
straight reporting rather than
fiction. A number of the inci-
dents mentioned happened that
way, though not always to the
characters accredited. The ne-
cessity of compression of several
people into one “character”
changes them a little, but the
feel of the whole setup is per-
fect.

If you know the members of
the M. L. S., you need the book.
If you know them only through
their writing, you can meet them.
And if you read Astounding, you
know them that way — Bob Hein-
lein, Cleve Cartmill, Anthony
Boucher, Anson MacDonald,
Roby Wentz, Lewis Padgett,
Will Stewart, Henry Kuttner
and C. L. Moore, who is Mrs.
Kuttner, Jack Williamson, Ed-
mond Hamilton and half a dozen
others.

The basis of the story is the
literary profiteering of one
Hilary Foulkes, sole controller
of the literary estate of his late,

great father, Fowler Foulkes,
author of the Dr. Derringer sto-
ries. The Dr. Derringer stories
being early science-fiction sto-
ries that made a tremendous im-
pression, widely known all over
the world. But Hilary Foulkes
is sitting tight on the copyrights,
charging outrageous and disas-
trous fees for the use of any-
thing associated with the works
of his father. The result is that
every writer, agent and editor in
the field feels that a fatal acci-
dent would bring about a great
improvement in Hilary. Since
all the members of the Manana
Literary Society are active in the
field, and each has been directly
damaged by some action of the
foppish and t;gh»-'fisted Hilary,
every member is open to suspi-
-cion when Hilary starts getting
presents of candied cyanide and
packages that tick.

Which means that the detec-
tive — and hence the reader — is
exposed to the Manana Literary
Society in full action. Since
H. H. Holmes is himself a re-
cently joined member, it’s a good
analysis of what makes science-
fiction, and why.

Oh, incidentally — it’s a first-
rate murder mystery, too.

JWC Jr.

128

BRASS TACKS

Know any service men—

Dear Mr. Campbell:

September Astounding very,
very good.

1. “Nerves” — Magnificent!

2. “The Barrier" — Excellent.

3. “Pride" — Splendid.

4. “With Flaming Swords” —
Good.

5. “Twonky” — Clever.

6. “Starvation” — Good of its
type.

7. Article — Interesting.

Cover and inside pics, good.

The new artists are developing
in good shape. However, none
in this issue I would especially
want for my collection. Tim-
mins doing nice cover work.

Hope no more of my fan
friends get in the service — I
have to get four copies every
month now — and that’s money.
— E. Everett Evans, 191 Capital
Avenue, S. W., Battle Creek,
Michigan.

With a temperature range of
over 100°F. from day to night,
Mars’ atmosphere is pretty apt
to be hectic!

Dear Mr. Campbell:

I have just finished the No-
vember issue of Astounding
Science-Fiction and felt that I
must comment on the magazine.
We’ll start with the cover. I

must admit that I was one of
those who complained at the ap-
pearance of a Hubert Rogers
cover on every issue for a year
and a half, but after seeing the
sketchy illustration on this
month’s mag by Modest Stein, I
cry for Rogers again. I am sorry
he is in the army. And the il-
lustrators — Kolliker and Kramer.
Enuff said.

But now for the contents, and
that is a different matter. “Over-
throw” is well written, and al-
though the plot is not new in
any way, the handling of the
story makes it rank as the second
best in the issue. First, of
course, is “Not Only Dead Men.”
Von Vogt really scores a topper
with this one. I was afraid for
a while that he had become the
crank-turner for ASF in the ab-
sence of Anson MacHeinlein,
<de Camp and Asimov. I see
now that I was wrong, with this
well-written, and above all, in-
teresting story. What I mean
by interesting is that, while I
like to exercise my mind with
some of these mental jigsaw puz-
zles of brain-teasers, I am not
able to digest story after story
of this type issue after issue.
I can't help but feel that most
of the stories in recent issues
have only increased my admira-
tion of your writers’ cleverness.
I long for the old emotional

story and for the “good old
days” of heroes and heroines.
Don’t misunderstand me, I like
a clever intellectual story as
well as the next fellow, but I
am not able to “lose myself” in
this type of story, but can only
say, “What a clever story.”

But to go on: “The Gentle

Pirates” was a fine bit of work,
in that, while the situation was
only a problem, was handled
well to give this third place in
my estimation. “Sand” was
fourth. I wonder though. Mr.
Campbell, about the continual
sandstorms. According to as-
tronomers the atmosphere of
Mars is very much less dense
than our own — approximately
twenty percent, I believe. Could
such an atmosphere be disturbed
to such an extent that sand-
storms, of the proportions men-
tioned in the story, would occur
constantly? “Minus Sign” and
“Four Little Ships” finish in
that order. I am glad__io— afifi.- - -
Murray Leinster baclf after six
years, but I should • also like
him to write stories as he did
then, also. The tales for “Proba-
bility Zero!” rank in the follow-
ing order. “Avenue of Escape,”

“A Matter of Eclipses,” and
“The Sleep That Slaughtered.”

I am eagerly awaiting the ap-
pearance of the fourth Lensman
story, for at the recent Second

BRASS TACKS

129

Annual Michiconference, I had
the pleasure of meeting E. E.
Smith and of listening to the
outline of his next yarn. It
seems as if the first three stories
were only a prelude to this
fourth one. From the discussion
of the previous stories, I realized
I had missed something by hasty
reading; as it seems necessary
to study a Smith story, rather
than just read it. Needless to
say, I reread all the previous
Lensman stories upon my return
home to Minneapolis.

Here’s to Astounding, and to
more staples, as there was only
one in my copy. — Manson Brack*
ney, 152 Arthur Avenue, S. E.,
Minneapolis, Minnesota.

Stewart’s too busy teaching the
Japs what “So sorry” really
means to be able to write.

Dear Mr. Campbell:

Here’s how the stories in the
November Astounding rate:
First place, for my money,
goes to Stewart's “Minus Sign."
Very interesting, very interest-
ing! I believe this is about the
first story I’ve ever read with the
theory of negative time in it,
and since I go for new ideas in
a big way, naturally the story
ranks first. Maybe Stewart can
cook up still a new kind of ex-
traterrene matter in future
stories. I certainly hope so.

Second place goes to Cartmill
for “Overthrow." Not much to
say about this except that I like
stories about future civilizations
and this was no exception.

As for the short stories. I’d
probably rate them thus;

3. “Not Only Dead Men,"

4. “The Gentle Pirates,”

5. “Four Little Ships."

6. “Sand.”

- Both articles were quite inter-
esting. All in all, the November
issue doesn’t rate as high as have
some previous issues.

And I still think that Astound-
ing is about as poorly an illus-
trated magazine as can be found
on the stands. Even the cover

was poor this time. You’re
really going to miss Rogers.
How about returning Wesso and
Brown to the covers? They al-
ways seemed to do their best
work for Astounding. Graves
Gladney might do some good
work for you, too.

Maybe I’d better vote for the
Probability Zero yarns so here
goes: “Avenue of Escape,” “The
Sleep That Slaughtered,” and
"Eureka!” are the three best in
that order.

Well, you ask us if we’d like
to see more war stories. I say
“No!” Let’s fight this war in
actuality, not in fiction. After
all that’s all we hear about and
read about, so let’s save our
magazine for “avenues of
escape.” Now don’t get me
wrong. It isn’t that I want to
get away from all mention of
this war, but the thing is that
too often time proves the ideas
in the story silly. Witness “Final
Blackout,” but if you can get
another story as powerful as
that one, I say print it even
though it might be all wrong in
its political aspects.

That’s all, I guess. The edi-
torial was interesting, as always:
book review, ample, et cetera. —
Arthur Saha, 2828^4 Third Ave-
nue B., Hibbing, Minnesota.

Suppose the machitie projected
a short-range beam which in-
duced in the first mefa//jc body
in its path currents which
established the protective field
as a hemisphere about that
body?

Dear Mr. Campbell:

To me the stories ir
ing fall into three cla:
mediocre, or bad. I <
stories as those I thir
worthless to be published. The
bulk of the yarns I read are
mediocre, I have a clear-cut
method of identifying a good
story. If, as I finish it, I feel the
urge to read it again, then it is
good.

Being very critical, stories I

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^.MARINES

find good are far between. There
has been only one in the last four
issues — August to November, in-
clusive. This one, “The Second
Solution.” in the October issue,
more than made up for the bulk
of mediocre ones. I read it an
even dozen times. It had “what
it takes” to make a story: action,
conflict and good writing. The
conflict was more mental than
physical, which made the story
all the more interesting.

As an engineer whose business
it is to apply physical principles
for the well-being of men, my
likes in Action lean strongly to-
ward the factual side, or at least
follow in the directions pointed
out by known — proven — physical
laws, or very probable theories.
For instance, in Cleve Cartmill’s
“Overthrow,” I can readily un-
derstand how the secret weapon
of the outlaws could be projected
as a hemispherical shell with
radii equidistant from the con-
trol box, as related as taking
place at the scene of the holdup
and on the island, in part. But
how such a wall could be pro-
jected in hemispherical form
with the control box outside the
shell is quite beyond my powers
of comprehension, even though
I readily understand why it
could destroy animal or vegeta-
ble life without destroying the
sand or the air. It could be
made to dissociate water and/or
the hydrocarbon compounds of
which the bodies of animals and
men are made, let us suppose.
Maybe I’d better quit before
this runs into a scientific dis-
sertation. — George Holman, Ma-
rissa, Illinois.

Well, Willy isn’t much of a
cook —

Dear Mr. Campbell;

“Nerves” was undoubtedly the
best story in the September is-
sue. It was real all through, and
it’s refreshingly different to
have an author with a knowledge
of modern surgery.

The others run as follows:

2. “Barrier” — Boucher,

3. “With Flaming Swords” —
Cartmill.

4. “Death Under the Sea” —
Ley.

5. “The Twonky” — Padgett.

6. “Pride” — Jameson.

7. “Starvation”— Brown.

“Barrier” was one of the best-

written yarns you’ve published
for some time, and certainly the
most original thing in time travel
for many moons. Also, 1 liked
the way Derringer prepared
Brent for the journey. Instead
of just handing him a gun and
twenty rounds and wishing him
good luck. Derringer prepared
him scientifically. He wanted a
man with quick wits, agile, and
having “social adaptability,” a
knowledge of history and lan-
guages. These things, of course,
are imperative to a time traveler,
but how many authors bother to
mention them?

Is there nothing that Willy
Ley can’t write about? His ar-
ticle on undersea warfare was
even better than that on bomb-
ing. I was interested to know
that magnetic mines were bomb-
shaped, as I’d always thought
they resembled the usual species.
It was also interesting to learn
that the North Sea Barrage was
mainly a United States job. A
pity Ley didn’t have any data on
acoustic mines — I’d like to know
how they’re counteracted. Sir
C. D. Burney, who invented the
paravane, also built the airship
RlOO and is at present pushing
a scheme for flying aircraft car-
riers holding pusher fighters in
their wings.

How about following up now
with an article on mechanized
land warfare? And talking about
articles, where’s de Camp? He’s
turned out some wizard works.

Too bad Rogers has left the
cover, but it will give new artist...
a chance. Timmins wasn’t so hot,
and I’m looking forward to von
Munchhausen’s astronomical.
Why not try Orban on the
cover? — Robert J. Silburn, The
Dingle, Rhydyfelin, Aberyst-
wyth, Wales, Britain.

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